FRANCES  E.  BENNETT. 


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OTHER  POEMS: 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES.       ^ 


BY   W.  WORDSWORTH. 


Quam  nihil  ad  genium,   Papiniane,   tuum! 

W 


VOL.    I. 


PROM    THE     LONDON    SECOND     EDITION. 

^Bila&elpjjia: 


PRINTED     AND     SOLD    BY    JAMES     HUMPHREYS, 
At  the  N.W.  Corner  of  Walnut  and  Dock-atreet. 

1802. 


•     -J 

v ,  l  -  ; 
CONTENTS. 

Vol.  L 


Expostulation  and  Reply  -----  Page  141 
The  Tables  turned  5  an  Evening  Scene  on  the  same 

Subject                     -      - ■-  14J 

Animal  Tranquillity  and  Decay,  a  Sketch      -       -  145 

The  Complaint  of  a  forsaken  Indian  Woman         -  146 

The  Last  of  the  Flock  -----  107 
Lines  left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-tree  which  stands 

near  the  Lake  of  Esthwaite         -         -        -       -  51 

The  Foster-mother's  Tale          -  45 

Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill        -  ye 

The  Thorn         -------  95 


We  are  Seven 


90 


Anecdote  for  Fathers          -----  g- 

Lines  written  at  a  small  Distance  from  my  House, 
and  sent  by  my  little  Boy  to  the  Person  to  whom 

they  are  addressed         -  g0 

The  Female  Vagrant          -         -         -         -         -  6X 

The  Dungeon          -         --         -         -          -  Jia 

Simon  Lee,  the  Old  Huntsman       -  82 

Lines  written  in  early  Spring             -           _            ^  g* 

The  Nightingale,  written  in  April  1798         -         -  c§ 

Lines  written  near  Richmond,  upon  the  Thames  139 

The  Idiot  Boy           -  -                         -           _           -  1Ig 

Love        -         -         -         -         -•-         -.«  j 

The  Mad  Mother           -          -          -          i          -  1 14 

The  Ancient  Manner         -         -         -         .         _  ,- 

On  Revisiting  the  Wye         -         -             -             -  Je* 

The  Convict            -            -            ..           -        -  150 

M        * 


83839 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


AT  the  same  time  that  the  Editor  begs  leave  to  offer  the 
following  as  the  cause  of  the  little  delay  that  has  taken 
place  in  the  Publication  of  these  Poems,  he  begs  also  re- 
spectfully to  present  his  Thanks  to  those  who  have  been  pleased 
to  favour  them  with  their  encouragement  by  Subscription. 

So  rapid  appears  to  have  been  the  Sale  of  these  Poems  in 
London  after  the  Publication  of  the  Second  Volume  the 
last  summer,  that  another  Edition  has  been  already  since 
published.  This,  containing  the  following  lengthy  Preface, 
the  beautiful  Ode  to  Love,  and  some  additional  explana- 
tory Notes,  more  than  the  former  Edition,  did  not  reach 
this  Country  till  after  the  present  one  had  been  put  to  Press, 
and  the  First  Volume  nearly  finished.  Some  little  delay,  has 
arisen  from  this  circumstance,  but,  at  the  same  time,  it  has 
enabled  the  Editor  to  give  the  Work  compleat,  which  other- 
wise would  not  have  been  the  case  j  and  though  attended  with 
considerable  more  expence  than  he  calculated  upon  when  he 
put  it  to  press,  it  will  be  delivered  to  the  Subscribers  at  the 
Price  mentioned  in  his  Proposals.  The  only  difference  that 
now  exists  between  this  and  the  last  London  Edition  is,  that 
the  Poem  entitled  the  Convict  is  retained  in  this  Edition, 
but  omitted  in  that,  and  that  the  Arrangement  of  the  Poems 
in  the  First  Volume  somewhat  differs.  The  Reader,  however, 
by  turning  to  them  as  they  follow  in  the  preceding  Table  of 
Contents,  will  have  them  as  they  are  arranged  in  the  last 
London  Edition. 

JAMES  HUMPHREYS. 
Philadelphia,  ? 
1802. i 


January,  1802. 


PREFACE. 


THE  First  Volume  of  these  Poems  has  already  been  submitted 
to  general  perusal.  It  was  published  as  an  experiment  which,  I 
hoped,  might  be  of  some  use  to  ascertain,  how  far,  by  fitting  to 
Metrical  arrangement  a  selection  of  the  real  language  of  men  in 
a  state  of  vivid  sensation,  that  sort  of  pleasure  and  that  quantity 
of  pleasure  may  be  imparted,  which  a  Poet  may  rationally  endea- 
vour to  impart. 

I  had'formed  no  very  inaccurate  estimate  of  the  probable  effect 
of  those  Poems  :  I  flattered  myse!f,  that  they  who  should  be  plea- 
sed with  them  would  read  them  with  more  than  common  plea- 
sure 5  and  on  the  other  hand  I  was  well  aware,  that  by  those  who 
should  dislike  them  they  would  be  read  with  more  than  common 
dislike.  The  result  has  differed  from  my  expectation  in  this  on- 
ly, that  I  have  pleased  a  greater  number  than  I  ventured  to  hope 
I  should  please. 

For  the  sake  of  variety,  and  from  a  consciousness  of  my  own 
weakness,  I  was  induced  to  request  the  assistance  of  a  friend,  who 
furnished  me  with  the  Poems  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  the 
Foster  Mother's  Tale,  the  Nightingale,  the  Dun- 
geon, and  the  Poem  entitled  Love.  I  should  not  however,  have 
requested  this  assistance,  had  I  not  believed,  that  the  Poems  of  my 
friend  would,  in  a  great  measure,  have  the  same  tendency  as  my 
own,  and  that  though  there  would  be  found  a  difference,  there 
would  be  found  no  discordance  in  the  colours  of  our  stvle :  as 
our  opinions  on  the  subject  of  Poetry  do  almost  entirely  coin- 
cide. 

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vi  PREFACE. 

Several  of  my  friends  are  anxious  for  the  success  of  these  Po- 
ems from  a  belief,  that  if  the  views  with  which  they  were  com- 
posed were  indeed  realized,  a  Class  of  Poetry  would  be  produced, 
well  adapted  to  interest  mankind  permanently,  and  not  unim- 
portant in  the  multiplicity  and  in  the  quality  of  its  moral  rela- 
tions ;  and  on  this  account,  they  have  advised  me  to  prefix  a  sys- 
tematic defence  of  the  theory  upon  which  the  Poems  were  written. 
But  I  was  unwilling  to  undertake  the  task,  because  I  knew  that 
on  this  occasion,  the  Reader  would  look  coldly  upon  my  arguments, 
since  I  might  be  suspected  of  having  been  principally  influenced 
by  the  selfish,  and  foolish  hope,  of  reasoning  him  into  an  appro- 
tion  of  these  particular  Po.ms  ;  and  I  was  still  more  unwilling 
to  undertake  the  task,  because,  adequately  to  display  my  opini- 
ons, and  fully  to  enforce  my  arguments,  would  require  a  space 
wholly  disproportionate  to  the  nature  of  a  Preface.  For  to  treat 
the  subject  with  the  clearness  and  coherence,  cf  which  I  believe  it 
susceptible,  it  would  be  necessary,  to  give  a  full  account  of  the 
present  state  of  the  public  taste  in  this  country,  and  to  deter- 
mine how  far  this  taste  is  healthy  or  depraved  ;  which  again 
could  not  be  determined,  without  pointing  cut  in  what  manner 
language  and  the  human  mind  act  and  re-act  on  each  other,  and 
without  retracing  the  revolutions,  not  of  literature  alone,  but 
likewise  of  society  itself.  I  have  therefore  altogether  declined  to 
enter  regularly  upon  this  defence  ;  yet  I  am  sensible,  that  there 
would  be  some  impropriety  in  abruptly  obtruding  upon  the  Pub- 
lic, without  a  few-words  of  introduction,  Poems  so  materially 
different  from  those,  upon  which  general  approbation  is  at  pre- 
sent bestowed. 

It  is  supposed,  that  by  the  act  of  writing  in  Verse,  an  Author 
makes  a  formal  engagement  that  he  will  gratify  certain  known 
■habits  of  association  }  that  he  not  only  thus  apprizes  the  Reader 
that  certain  classes  cf  ideas  and  expressions  will  be  found  in  his 
book,  but  that  others  will  be  car.fully  excluded.  This  exponent 
or  symbol  held  forth  by  Metrical  language,  must  in  different  aeras 
of  literature  have  excited  very  different  expectations :  for  exam- 
ple, in  the  age  of  Catullus  Terence  and  Lucretius,  and  that  of 
Statius  or  Claudian,  and  in  our  own  country  in  the  age  of 
Shakcspear,  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  that  of  Donne  and 


PREFACE.  vu 

Cowley,  or  Dryden,  or  Pope.  I  will  not  take  upon  me  to  deter- 
mine the  exact  import  of  the-  promise  which,  by  the  act  of 
writing  in  Verse,  an  Author  in  the  present  day  makes  to  his 
Reader  5  but  I  am  certain  it  will  appear  to  many  persons,  that  I 
have  not  fulfilled  the  terms  of  an  engagement  thus  voluntarily 
contracted.  I  hope  therefore  the  Reader  will  not  censure  me,  if  I 
attempt  to  state  what  I  have  proposed  to  myself  to  perform,  and 
also  (as  far  as  the  limits  of  a  Preface  will  permit)  to  explain  some 
of  the  chief  reasons  which  have  determined  me  in  the  choice  of 
my  purpose  ;  that  at  least  he  may  be  spared  any  unpleasant  feel- 
ing of  disappointment,  and  that  I  myself  may  be  protected  from 
the  most  dishonorable  accusation  which  can  be  brought  against 
an  Author,  namely,  that  of  an  indolence  which  prevents  him 
from  endeavouring  to  ascertain  what  is  his  duty,  or  when  his 
duty  is  ascertained,   prevents  him  from  performing  it. 

The  principal  object  then  which  I  proposed  to  myself  in  these 
Poems  was,  to  make  the  incidents  of  common  life  interesting, 
by  tracing  in  them,  truly,  though  not  ostentatiously,  the  primary 
laws  of  our  Nature  j  chiefly  as  far  as  regards  th?  manner  in 
which  we  associate  ideas  in  a  6tut«©f  excitement.  Low  ?nd  rus- 
tic life  was  generally  chosen,  because  in  that  situation,  the  essen- 
tial passions  of  the  heart  find  a  better  soil  in  which  they  can  at- 
tain their  maturity,  are  !ess  under  restraint,  and  speak  a  plainer 
and  more  emphatic  language  j  because,  in  that  situation,  our  ele- 
mentary feelings  exist  in  a  state  of  greater  simplicity,  and  conse- 
quently, may  be  more  accurately  contemplated,  and  more  forcibly 
communicated  j  because,  the  manners  of  rural  life  germinate 
from  those  elementary  feelings ;  and  from  the  necessary  character 
of  rural  occupations  are  more  easily  comprehended  ;  and  are  more 
durablej  and  lastly,  because,  in  that  situation,  the  passions  of 
men  are  incorporated  with  the  beautiful  and  permanent  forms 
of  nature.  The  language  too  of  these  men  is  adopted  (puri- 
fied indeed  from  what  appears  to  be  its  real  defects,  from  all 
lasting  and  rational  causes  of  dislike  or  disgust)  because  such 
men  hourly  communicate  with  the  best  objects  from  which 
the  best  part  of  language  is  originally  derived ;  and  because, 
from  their  rank  in  society,  and  the  sameness  and  narrow  cir- 
cle of  their  intercourse,  being  less  under  the  action  of  social 


WM  PREFACE. 

vanity,  they  convey  their  feelings  and  notions  in  simple  and  on- 
elaborated  expressions.  Accordingly,  such  a  language  arising  out 
of  repeated  experience  and  regular  feelings  is  a  more  permanent, 
and  a  far  more  philosophical  language,  than  that  which  is 
frequently  substituted  for  it  by  Poets,  who  think  that  they  are 
conferring  honour  upon  themselves  and  their  art  in  proportion  as 
they  separate  themselves  from  the  sympathies  of  men,  and  in- 
dulge in  arbitrary  and  capricious  habits  of  expression,  in  order 
to  furnish  food  for  fickle  tastes  and  fickle  appetites  of  their  own 
creation.* 

I  cannot  be  insensible  of  «he  present  outcry  against  the  trivi- 
ality and  meanness  both  of  thought  and  language,  which  some 
cf  my  contemporaries  have  oc  asionally  introduced  into  their  Me- 
trical compositions  j  and  I  acknowledge,  that  this  defect  where 
it  exists,  is  more  dishonorable  to  the  Writer's  own  character, 
than  false  refinement  or  arbitrary  innovation,  though  I  should 
contend  at  the  same  time  that  it  is  far  less  pernicious  in  the  sum 
of  its  consequences.  From  such  Verses,  the  Poems  in  these  Vo- 
lumes will  be  found  distinguished  at  least  by  one  mark  of  diffe- 
rence, that  each  of  them  has  a  worthy  purpose.  Not  that  I  mean 
to  say  that  I  always  began  to  write  with  a  distinct  purpose  for- 
mally conceived  j  but  I  believe,  that  my  habits  of  meditatioi* 
have  so  formed  my  feelings,  as  that  my  descriptions  of  such  ob- 
jects as  strongly  excite  those  feelings,  will  be  found  to  carry 
along  with  them  a  purpose.  If  in  this  opinion  I  am  mistaken, 
I  can  have  little  right  to  the  name  of  a  Poet.  For  all  good  Po- 
e^  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful  feelings  j  but  though 
this  be  true,  Poems  to  which  any  value  can  be  attached,  were 
never  produced  on  any  variety  of  subjects  but  by  a  man,  wh?, 
being  possessed  of  more  than  usual  organic  sensibility,  had  also 
thought  long  and  deeply.  For  our  continued  influxes  of  feelings 
are  modified  and  diiected  by  our  thoughts,  which  are  indeed  the 
representatives  of  all  our  past  feelings ;  and  as  by  contemplating 
the  relation  of  these  general  representatives  to  each  other,  we 

*  It  is  worth  white  here  to  observe,  that  the  affecting  parts  of 
Chaucer  are  almost  always  expressed  in  language  pure  and  univer-* 
sally  intelligible  even  to  this  day* 


PREFACE.  15C 

discover  what  is  really  important  to  men,  so  by  the  repetition 
and  continuance  of  this  act,  feelings  connected  with  important 
subjects  will  be  nourished,  till  at  length,  if  we  be  originally  pos- 
sessed of  much  organic  sensibility,  such  habits  of  mind  will  be 
produced,  that  by  obeying  blindly  and  mechanically  the  impul- 
ses of  those  habits,  we  shall  describe  objects,  and  utter  senti- 
ments of  such  a  nature,  and  in  such  connection  with  each 
other,  that  the  understanding  of  the  being  to  whom  we  address 
ourselves,  k*  he  be  in  a  healthful  state  of  association,  must  ne- 
cessarily be  in  some  degree  enlightened,  his  taste  exalted,  and 
his  affections  ameliorated. 

I  have  said  that  each  of  these  Poems  has  a  purpose.  I  have 
also  informed  my  Reader  what  this  purpose  will  be  found 
principally  to  be  ;  namely,  to  illustrate  the  manner  in  which  our 
feelings  and  ideas  are  associated  in  a  state  of  excitement.  But 
speaking  in  less  general  language,  it  is  to  follow  the  fluxes  and 
refluxes  of  the  mind  when  agitated  by  the  great  and  simple  af- 
fections of  our  nature.  This  object  I  have  endeavoured  in  these 
short  essays  to  attain  by  various  means;  by  tracing  the  Mater- 
nal passion  through  many  of  its  more  subtle  windings,  as  in  the 
Poems  of  the  1 010  t  Boy  and  the  Mad  Mother  j  by  accom- 
panying the  last  struggles  of  a  huraan  being  at  the  approach  of 
death,  cleaving  in  solitude  to  life  and  society,  as  in  the  Poem  of 
theFoRSAKEN  Indian  ;  by  shewing  asinthe  Stanzas  entitled 
We  are  seven,  the  perplexity,  and  obscurity  which  in  child- 
hood attends  our  notion  of  death,  or  rather  our  utter  inability  to 
admit  that  notion;  or  by  displaying  the  strength  of  fraternal,  or 
to  speak  more  philosophically,  of  moral  attachment,  when  early 
associated  with  the  great  and  beautiful  objects  of  Nature,  as  in 
the  Brothers;  or,  as  in  the  incident  of  Simon  Lee,  by 
placing  my  Reader  in  the  way  of  receiving  from  ordinary  moral 
sensations,  another  and  more  salutary  impression  than  we  are  ac- 
customed to  receive  from  them.  It  has  also  been  part  of  my 
general  purpose  to  attempt  to  sketch  characters  under  the  influ- 
ence of  less  impassioned  feelings,  as  in  the  Ol  d  Man  Travel-, 
iing,  the  Two  Thieves,  &c,  characters  of  which  the  ele- 
ment are  simple,  belonging  rather  to  Nature  than  to  manners, 
b  a 


»  PREFACE. 

such  as  exist  now,  and  will  probably  always  exist,  and  which 
from  their  constitution  may  be  distinctly  and  profitably  contem- 
plated. I  will  not  abuse  the  indulgence  of  my  Reader  by  dwelling- 
longer  upon  this  subject  j  but  it  is  proper  that  I  should  mention 
one  other  circum&tance  whi;h  distinguishes  these  Poems  from 
the  popular  Poetry  of  the  day  j  it  is  this,  that  the  reeling  therein 
developed  gives  importance  to  the  action  and  situation,  and  not 
the  action  and  situation  to  the  feeling.  My  meaning  will  be  ren- 
dered perfectly  intelligible  by  referring  my  Reader  to  the  Poem* 
entitled  Poor  Susan  and  the  Childless  Father,  particii- 
lirly  to  the  last  Stanza  of  the  latter  Poem. 

I  will  not  suffer  a  sense  of  false  modesty  to  prevent  me-from 
asserting,  that  I  point  my  Readers  attention  to  this  mark  of 
distinction.1  far  less  for  the  sake  of  these  particular  Poems,  thart 
from  the  general  importance  of  the  subject.  The  subject  is  in- 
deed important !  For  the  human  mind  is  capable  of  excitement 
without  the  application  of  gross  and  violent  stimulants  j  and  he 
must  have  a  very  faint  perception  of  its  beauty  and  dignity,  who 
does  not  know  this,  and  who  does  not  further  know,  that  one 
being  is  elevated  above  another  in  proportion  as  he  possesses 
this  capability.  It  has  therefore  appeared  to  me,  that  to  en* 
deavour  to  produce  or  enlarge  this  capability  is  one  of  the  best 
•ervices,  in  which,  at  any  period,  a  Writer  can  be  engaged  ;  but 
this  service,  excellent  at  all  times,  is  especially  so  at  the  present 
day  :  For  a  multitude  of  causes,  unknown  to  former  times,  are 
now  acting  with  a  combined  force  to  blunt  the  discriminating 
powers  of  the  mind,  and  by  unfitting  it  for  all  voluntary  exertion, 
to  reduce  it  to  a  state  of  almost  savage  torpor.  The  most  effec- 
tive of  these  causes  are  the  great  National  Events  which  are  dai- 
ly taking  place,  and  the  encreasing  accumulation/^  men  in  ci- 
ties, where  the  uniformity  of  their  occupations  produces  a  era- 
Ting  for  extraordinary  incident,  which  the  rapid  communication 
of  intelligence  hourly  gratifies.  To  this  tendency  of  life  and 
manners  the  literature  and  theatrical  exhibitions  of  the  country 
have  conformed  themselves !  The  invaluable  works  of  our  el- 
der writers,  I  had  alm-jst  said  the  works  of  Shakespear  and 
JVJiltcn,  are  driven  into  neglect  by  frantic  Novels,  sickly  and 
stupid  German  Tragedies,  and  deluges  of  idle  and  extravagant 


PREFACE.  *f. 

Stories  In  verse. — When  I  think  upon  this  degrading  thirst  after 
outrageous  stimulation,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  have  Spoken 
of  the  feeble  effort  with  which  I  have  endeavoured  to  counter- 
act it  j  and  reflecting  upon  the  magnitude  of  the  general  evily 
I  should  be  oppressed  with  no  dishonorable  melancholy,  had  I 
not.  a  deep  impression  of  certain  inherent  and  indestructible  qua- 
lities of  the  human  mind,  and  likewise  of  certain  powers  in  the 
great  and  permanent  objects  that  act  upon  it,  which  are  equally 
inherent  and  indestructible  j  and  did  I  not  further  add  to  this 
impression  a  belief,  that  the  time  is  approaching,  when  the  evil 
will  be  systematically  opposed  by  men.  of  greater  powers,  ami 
with  far  more  distinguished,  success.. 

Having  dwelt  thus  long  on  the  subjects  and  aim  of  these  Po- 
ems, I  shall  request  the  Reader's  permission  to  apprise  him  of  a. 
few  circumstances  relating  to  their  style,  in  order,  among 
other  reasons,  that  I  may  not  be  censured  for  not  having  per- 
formed what  I  never  attempted.  Except  in  a  very  few  instances 
the  Reader  will  find  no  personifications  of  abstract  ideas  in  these 
Volumes,  not  that  J  mean  to  censure  such  personifications  j  they 
may  be  well  fitted  for  certain  sorts  of  composition,  but  in  these 
Poems,  I  propose  to  myself  to  imitate-,  and,  as  far  as  possible  to- 
iadopt,  the  very  language  of  men ;  and  I  do  not  find  that  such 
personifications  make  any  regular  or  natural  part  of  that  lan- 
guage. I  wish  to  keep  my  Reader  in  the  company  of  flesh  and 
blood,  persuaded,  that  by  so  doing,  I  shall  interest  him.  Not 
but  that!  believe,  that  others  who  pursue  a  different  track,  may 
interest  him  likewise  :  Ido  not  interfere  with  their  claim  5  I  on- 
ly wish  to  prefer  a  different  claim  of  my  own.  Thrre  will- also  be 
found  in  these  Volumes  little  of  what  is  usually  called  poetic  dic- 
tion ;  I  have  taken  as  much  pains  to  avoid  it  as  others  ordina- 
rily take  to  produce  itj  this  I  have  done  for  the  reason  already 
alleged,  to  bring  my  language  near  to  the  language  of  men,  and 
further,  because  the  pleasure,  which  I  have  proposed  to  myself  to 
impart,  is  of  a  kind  very  different  from  that  Which  is  supposed 
by  many  persons  to  be  the  proper  object  of  Poetry.  I  do  not 
know  how,  without  being  culpably  particular,  I  can  give  my 
Reader  a  more  exact  notion  of  the  style  in  which  I  wished  these 
Poems  to  be  written,  than  by  informing  him,  that  I  have  at  all 


xii  PREFACE. 

times  endeavoured  to  loolc  steadily  at  my  subject,  consequently,  I 
hope  it  will  be  found,  that  there  is  in  these  Poems  little  falsehood 
of  description,  and  that  my  ideas  are  expressed  in  language  fitted 
to  their  respective  importance.  Something  I  must  have  gained 
by  this  practice,  as  it  is  friendly  to  one  property  of  all  good  Po- 
etry, namely,  good  sense  j  but  it  has  necessarily  cut  me  oft"  from 
a  large  portion  of  phrases  and  figures  of  speech,  which,  from  fa- 
ther to  son  have  long  been  regarded  as  the  common  inheritance 
of  Poets.  I  have  also  thought  it  expedient  to  restrict  myself 
still  further,  having  abstained  from  the  use  of  many  expressi- 
ons, in  themselves  proper  and  beautiful,  but  which  have  been 
foolishly  repeated  by  bad  Poets,  till  such  feelings  of  disgust  ar« 
connected  with  them  as  it  is  scarcely  possible  by  any  art  of  asso- 
ciation to  overpower. 

If  in  a  Poem  there  should  be  found  a  series  of  lines,  or  even  a 
single  line,  in  which  the  language,  though  naturally  arrang~d> 
and  according  to  the  stiict  laws  of  Metre,  does  not  differ 
from  that  of  Prose,  there  is  a  numerous  class  of  critics  who, 
when  they  stumble  upon  these  Prosaisms,  as  they  call  them,  ima- 
gine that  they  have  made  a  notable  discovery,  and  exult  over  the 
Poet  as  over  a  man  ignorant  of  his  own  profession.  Now  these 
men  would  establish  a  canon  of  criticism  which  the  Reader  will 
conclude  he  must  utterly  reject  if  he  wishes  to  be  pleased  with 
these  Volumes.  And  it  would  be  a  most  easy  task  to  prove  to 
him,  that  not  only  the  language  of  a  large  portion  of  every  good 
Poem,  even  of  the  most  elevated  character,  must  necessarily, 
except  with  reference  to  the  Metre,  in  no  respect  differ  from  that 
of  good  Prose,  but  likewise,  that  some  of  the  most  interesting 
parts  of  the  best  Poems  will  be  found  to  be  strictly  the  language 
©f  Prcse,  when  Piose  is  well  written.  The  truth  of  this  assertion 
might  be  demonstrated  by  innumerable  passages  from  almost  all 
the  Poetical  writings  even  of  Milton  himself.  1  have  not  space 
for  much  quotation  ;  but,  to  illustrate  the  subject  in  a  general 
manner,  I  will  here  adduce  a  short  composition  of  Gray,  who 
was  at  the  head  of  those,  who  by  their  reasonings  have  attempted 
to  widen  the  space  of  separation  betwixt  Prcse  and  Metrical  com- 
position, and  was  more  than  any  other  man  curiously  elaborate 
in  the  structure  of  his  own  poetic  diction. 


PREFACE.  xIU 

In  vain  tome  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire  : 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join, 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire  j 
These  ears  alas  !  for  other  notes  repine  ; 
A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require  j 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mint} 
And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire  j. 
Yet  morning  smiles  the   busy  race  to  cheer, 
And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  menj 
The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear } 
To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain. 
J  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear 
And  weep  the  more  because  I  weep  in  vain.. 

It  will  easily  be  perceived,  that  the  only  part  of  this  Sonnet 
which  is  of  any  value,  is  the  lines  printed  in  Italics  :  It  *i3  equal-, 
ly  obvious,  that  except  in  thj  rhyme>  and  in  the  use  of  the  sin- 
gle word  «  fruitless"  for  fruitlessly,  which  is  so  far  a  defect,  the 
language  of  these  Unes.  does  in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of 

IVoac. 

Is  there  then,  it  will  be  asked,  no  essential  difference  between 
the  language  of  Prose  and  Metrical  composicion  ?  I  answer  that 
there  neither  is  nor  can  be  any  essential  difference.  We  are  fond 
of  tracing  the  resemblance  between  Poetry  and  Painting,  and, 
accordingly,  we  call  them  sisters  j  but  where  shall  we  find  bonds 
of  connection  sufficiently  strict  to  typify  the  affinity  betwixt 
Metrical  and  Prose: composition  ?  They  b^th  speak  by  and  to 
the  same  organs  j  the  bodies  in  which  both  of  them  are  clothed 
may  be- said  to  be" of  the  same  substance,  their  affections  ace 
kindred  and  almost  identical,  not  necessarily  differing  even  in 
degree  j  Poetry  *  sheds  no  tears    n  such  as  Angels  weep,"  but 


*  I  here  use  the  word  "  Poetry"  (though  against  my  oivn  judg- 
ment) as  opposed  to  the  word  Prose,  and  synonymous  with  Metrical 
composition.  But  much  confusion  bas  been  introduced  into  Criticism.by 


xiv  PREFACE. 

natural  and  human  tears  ;  she  can  boast  of  no  celestial  Ichor 
that  distinguishes  her  vital  juices  from  those  of  Prose  $  the  same 
human  blood  circulates  through  the  veins  cf  them  both. 

If  it  be  affirmed  that  Rhyme  and  Metrical  arrangement,  of 
themselves,  constitute  a  distinction,  which  overturns  what  I  have 
been  saying  on  the  strict  affinity  of  Metrical  language  with 
that  of  Prose,  and  paves  the  way  for  other  distinctions  which  the 
mind  voluntarily  admits,  I  answer,  that  the  distinction  of  Rhyme 
and  Metre  is  regular  and  uniform,  and  not,  like  that  which  is 
produced  by  what  is  usually  called  Poetic  diction,  arbitrary,  and 
subject  to  infinite  caprices,  up.m  which  no  calculation  whatever 
can  be  made.  In  the  one  case,  the  Reader  is  utterly  at  the  mercy 
of  the  Poet  respecting  what  imrgery  or  diction  he  may  choose  to 
connect  with  the  passion,  whereas  in  thi  other,  the  Metre  obeys 
certain  laws,  to  which  the  Poet  and  Reader  both  willingly  sub- 
mit, because  hey  are  certain,  and  because,  no  interference  is  mads 
by  them  with  the  passion,  but  such  as  the  concurring  testimony 
of  ages  has  shewn  to  heighten  and  impr.we  the  pleasure  which, 
CO-exists  with  it. 

It  will  now  be  proper  to  answer  an  obvious  question,  namely, 
why,  professing  these  opinions,  have  I  written  in  Verse  r  ToJiJ. 
in  the  first  place  I  reply  ,  because,  however  I  may  have  restricted 
myself,  there  is  still  left  open  to  me,  what  confessedly  constitutes 
the  most  valuable  object  of  all  writing,  whether  in  Prose  or  Verse, 
the  great  and  universal  Passions  of  men,  the  most  general  and 
interesting  of  their  occupations,  and  the  entire  world  of  Nature, 
from  which  I  am  at  liberty  to  supply  myself  with  endhss  combi- 
nations of  forms  and  imagery.  Now,  granting  for  a  moment, 
that  whatever  is  interesting  in  these  objects  may  be  as  vividly  de- 
scribed in  Prose,  why  am  I  to  be  condemned  if  to  su  :h  descrip- 
tion I  have  endeavoured  to  superadd  the  charm  which,  by  the 
consent  of  all  nations,  is  acknowledged  to  exist  in  Metrical  lan- 
guage ?  To  this  it  will  be  answered  that  a  very  small  [art  of  the 


this  contradistinction  of  Poetry  and  Prose,  'instead  of  the  more,  pbilo- 
iopb\cal  one  of  Poetry  and  Science.  %bs  enly  stria  antithesis  f*  Prose 
k  Metre. 


PREFACE.  x* 

pleasure  given  by  Poetry  depends  upon  the  Metre,  and  that  it  Is 
injudicious  to  write  in  Metre,  unless  it  be  accompanied  with  the 
other  artificial  distinctions  of  style  with  which  Metre  is  usually 
accompanied;  and  that  by  such  deviation  more  will  be  lost  from 
the  shock  which  will  be  thereby  given  to  the  Reader's  associa- 
tions, than  will  be  counterbalanced  by  any  pleasure,  which  he  can 
derive  from  the  general  Power  of  Numbers.  In  answer  to 
those  who  thus  contend  for  the  necessity  of  accompanying 
Metre  with  certain  appropriate  colours  of  style,  in  order  to  the 
accomplishment  of  its  appropriate  end,  and  who,  also,  in  my 
opinion,  greatly  under-xate  the  Power  of  Metre  in  itself,  it 
might,  perhaps,  be  almost  sufficient  to  observe,  that  Poems 
are  extant,  written  upon  more  humble  subjects,  and  in  a 
more  naked  and  simple  style,  than  what  I  have  aimed  at, 
which  Poems  have  continued  to  give  pleasure  from  generation  to 
generation.  Now  if  nakedness  and  simplicity  be  a  defect,  the 
fact  heie  mentioned  affords  a  strong  presumption,  that  Poems 
somewhat  less  naked  and  simple,  are  capable  of  affording  pleasure 
a-t  the  present  day  j  and  all  that  I  am  now  attempting  is— to  jus- 
tify myself  for  having  written  under  the  impression  of  this  be- 
lief. 

But  I  might  point  out  various  causes  why,  when  the  stile  is 
manly,  and  the  subject  of  some  importance,  words,  Metrically  ar- 
ranged, will  long  continue  to  impart  such  a  pleasure  to  mankind, 
as  he,  who  is  sensible  of  the  extent  of  that  pleasure,  will  be  desi- 
rous to  impart.  The  end  of  Poetry  is  to  produce  excitement  in 
co-existence  with  an  overbalance  of  pleasure.  Now,  by  the  sup- 
position", excitement  is  an  unusual  and  irregular  state  of  the 
mind.j  ideas  and  feelings  do  not  in  that  state  succeed  each  other 
in  accustomed  order.  But,  if  the  words  by  which  this  excite- 
ment is  produced  are  in  themselves  powerful,  or  the  images  and 
feelings  have  an  undue  proportion  of  pain  connected  with  them, 
there  is  some  danger,  that  the  excitement  may  be  carried  beyond 
its  proper  bounds.  Now  the  co-presence  of  something  regular* 
something  to  which  the  mind  has  been  accustomed  when  in  an 
unexcited,  or  a  less  excited  state,  cannot  but  have  great  efficacy, 
in  tempering  and  restraining  the  passion,  by  an  intertexture  of 
ordinary  feeling.      This  may  be  illustrated  by  appealing  to  the 


xvi  PREFACE. 

Readers  own  experience,  of  the  reluctance  with  which  he  comes 
to  the  re-perusal  of  the  distressful  parts  of  Clarissa  Harlowe,  or 
the  Gamester.  While  Shakespear's  writings,  in  the  most  pa- 
thetic scenes,  never  act  upon  us  as  pathetic  beyond  the  bound* 
of  pleasure— an  effect,  which  is  in  a  great  degree  to  be  ascribed  to 
small,  but  continual,  and  regular  impulses  of  pleasureable  sur- 
prise from  the  Metrical  arrangement — On  the  other  hand  (what 
it  must  be  allowed  will  much  more  frequently  happen)  if  the- 
Poet's  words  should  be  incommensurate  with  the  passion,  and 
inadequate  to  raise  the  Reader  to  a  height  of  desirable  excite- 
ment, then  (unless  the  Poet's  choice  of  his  Metre  has  been  gross- 
ly injudicious)  in  the  feelings  of  pleasure  which  the  Reader  har 
been  accustomed  to  connect  with  Metre  in  general,  and  in  the 
feeling,  whether  chearful  or  melancholy,  which  he  has  been  ac- 
customed to  connect  with  that  particular  movement  of  Metre, 
there  will  be  found  something,  which  will  greatly  contribute  to 
impart  passion  to  the  words,  and  to  effect  the  complex  end 
which  the  Poet  proposes  to  himself. 

If  I  had  undertaken  a  systematic  defence  of  the  theory  upon 
which  these  Poems  are  written,  it  would  have  been  my  duty  to 
develope  the  various  causes  upon  which  the  pleasure  received 
from  Metrical  language  depends.  Among  the  chief  of  these 
causes  is  to  be  reckoned  a  principle,  which  must  be  well  known 
to  those  who  have  made  any  of  the  Arts  the  object  of  accurate 
reflection  $  I  mean  the  pleasure  which  the  mind  derives  from  the 
perception  of  similitude  in  dissimilitude.  This  principle  is  the 
great  spring  of  the  activity  of  our  minds  and  their  chief  feeder. 
From  this  principle  the  direction  of  the  sexual  appetite,  and  all 
the  passions  connected  with  it,  take  their  origin.  It  is  the  life 
of  our  ordinary  conversation;  and  upon  the  accuracy  with  which 
similitude  in  dissimilitude,  and  dissimilitude  in  similitude  are 
perceived,  depend  our  taste  and  our  moral  feelings.  It  would  not- 
have  been  a  useless  employment  to  have  applied  this  principle  to 
the  consideration  of  Metre,  and  to  have  shewn,  that  Metre  is 
hence  enabled  to  afford  much  pleasure,  and  to  have  pointed  out 
in  what  manner  that  pleasure  is  produced.  But  my  limits  will 
not  permit  me  to  enter  upon  this  subject,  and  I  must-  content 
myself  with  a  general  Summary. 


PREFACE.  xvii 

I  have  said  'that4*oetry  is  the  spontaneous  overftew-of  powerful 
feelings.  It  takes  hs  origin  from  emotion  recollected  in  tranquil- 
lity j  the  ^emotion  is  contemplated  till  by  a  species  of  reaction 
the  tranquillity  gradually  disappears,  and  an  emotion,  similarto 
that  Which  was  before  the  subject  of  contemplation,  is'gradual- 
ly  produced,  anddoes  itself  actually  exist  in  the  mind.  In  this 
mood  successful  composition  generally  begins,  and  in  a -mood  si- 
nailarto  this  it  is  carried  on;  but  the  emotion,  of  whatever  kind, 
and  in  whatever  degree,  from  various  causes  is  qualified  by  va- 
rious pleasures,  so  that  in  describing  any  passions  whatsoever, 
which  are  voluntarily  described,  the  mind  will  upon  the  whole  be 
in  a  state  of  enjoyment.  Now  if  Nature  he  thus  cautious  in  pre- 
serving in  a  state  of  enjoyment  a  being  thus  employed,  the  Poet 
ought  to  profit  by  the  lesson  thus  held  forth  to  him,  and  ought 
especially  to  take  care,  that  whatever  passions  he  communicates 
to  his  Reader,  thosepassions,  if  his  Reader's  mind  be  sound  and 
vigorous,  should  always  be  accompanied  with  an  overbalance  of 
pleasure.  Nowthe  music  of  harmonious  Metrical  language,  the 
sense  of  difficulty  overcome,  and  the  blind  association  of  plea- 
sure which  has  been  previously  received  from  works  of  Rhyme 
or  Metre  of  the  same  or  similar  construction,  all  these  impercep- 
tibly make  up  a  complex  feeling  of  delight,  which  is  of  the  most 
important  use  in  tempering  the  painful  feeling  which  will  al- 
ways be  found  intermingled  with  powerful  descriptions  of  the 
deeper  passions.  This  effect  is  always  produced  in  pathetic  and 
impassioned  Poetry ;  while  in  lighter  compositions  the  ease  and 
gracefulness  with  which  the  Poet  manages  his  numbers  are  therm- 
selves  confessedly  a  principal  source  of  the  gratification  of  the 
Reader.  I  might  perhaps  include  all  which  it  is  neccessary  to  say 
upon  this  subject  by  affirming  what  few  persons  will  deny,  that 
of  two  descriptions  either  of  passions,  manners  or  characters, 
each  of  them  equally  well  executed,  the  one  in  Prose  and  the 
other  in  Verse,  the  Verse  willbe  read  a  hundred  times  where  the 
Prose  is  read  once.  We  see  that  Pope  by  the  power  of  Verse 
alone,  has  contrived  to  render  the  plainest  common  sense  inte- 
resting, and  even  frequently  to  invest  it*  with  the  appearance  of 
passion.  In  consequence  of  these  conv  ictionsl  related  in  Metre 
c 


xvni  PREFACE. 

the  Tale  of  goody  blake  and  harry  Gitt,  which  Is  one. 
of  the  rudest  of  this  collection.  I  wished  to  draw  attention  to  the 
truth  that  the  power  of  the  human  imagination  is  sufficient  to 
produce  such  changes  even  in  our  physical  nature  as  might  al- 
most appear  miraculous.  The  truth  is  an  important  one  j  the 
fact  (for  it  is  2,/act)  is  a  valuable  illuftration  of  it.  And  I  have 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  it  has  been  communicated  to 
many  hundreds  of  people  who  would  never  have  heard  of  it, 
had  it  not  been  narrated  as  a  Ballad,  and  in  a  more  impressive 
Metre  than  is  usual  in  Ballads. 

Having  thus  adverted  to  a  few  of  the  reasons  why  I  have 
written  in  Verse,  and  why  I  have  chosen  subjects  from  common 
life,  and  endeavoured  to  bring  my  language  near  to  the  real  lan- 
guage of  men,  if  I  have  been  too  minute  in  pleading  my  own 
cause,  I  have  at  the  same  time  been  treating  a  subject  of  gene- 
ral interest:  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I  request  the  Reader's 
permission  to  add  a  few  words  with  reference  solely  to  these 
particular  Poems,  and  to  some  defects  which  will  probably  be 
found  in  them.  I  am  sensible  that  my  associations  must  have 
sometimes  been  particular  instead  of  general,  and  that,  conse- 
quently, giving  to  things  a  false  importance,  sometimes  from 
deceased  impulses  I  may  have  written  upon  unworthy  subjects ; 
but  I  am  less  apprehensive  on  this  account,  than  that  my  lan- 
guage may  frequently  have  suffered  from  those  arbitrary  connec- 
tions of  feelings  and  ideas  with  particular  words,  from  which  no 
man  can  altogether  protect  himself.  Hence  I  have  no  doubt, 
that  in  some  instances,  feelings  even  of  the  ludicrous  may  be 
given  to  my  Readers  by  expressions  which  appeared  to  me  ten- 
der and  pathetic.  Such  faulty  expressions,  were  I  convinced 
they  were  faulty  at  present,  and  that  they  muft  necessarily  con- 
tinue to  be  so,  I  would  willingly  take  all  reasonable  pains  to 
correct.  But  it  is  dangerous  to  make  these  alterations  on  the 
simple  authority  of-a  few  individuals,  or  even  of  certain  classes 
of  men  j  for  where  the  understanding  of  an  Author  is  not  con- 
vinced, or  his  feelings  altered,  this  cannot  be  done  without 
great  injury  to  himself  j  for  his  own  feelings  are  his  stay  and 
support,  and  if  he  sets  them  aside  in  one  instance  he  may  be 
induced  to  repeat  this  act  till  his  mind  loses  all  confidence  in  it- 


PREFACE,  *x 

self  and  becomes  utterly  debilitated.  To  this  it  may  be  added, 
that  the  Reader  ought  never  to  forget  that  he  is  himself  exposed 
to  the  same  errors  as  the  Poet,  and  perhaps  in  a  much  greater 
degree  j  for  there  can  be  no  presumption  in  saying,  that  it  is  *»ot 
probable  he  will  be  so  well  acquainted  with  the  various  stages  of 
meaning  through  which  words  have  passed,  or  with  the  fickle- 
.  ness  or  liability  of  the  relations  of  patticular  ideas  to  each  other 
and  above  all,  since  he  is  so  much  less  interested  in  the  subject, 
he-may  decide  lightly  and  carelessly. 

Long  as  I  have  detained  my  Reader,  I  hope  he  will  permit 
me  to  caution  him  againft  a  mode  of  false  criticism  which  has 
been  applied  to  Poetry  in  which  the  language  closely  resembles' 
that  of  life  and  nature.  Such  verses  have  been  triumphed  over 
in  Parodies  of  which  Dr.  Johnson's  Stanza  is  a  fair  specimen. 

**  I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head" 
And  walk'd  into  the  Strandr 
And  there  I  met  another  marr 
Whose  hat  was  in  his  hand." 

Immediately  under  these  lines  I  will  place  one  of  the  moll 
juftly  admired  stanzas  of  the  "  Babes  in  the  Wood.'* 

"  These  pretty  Babes  with  hand  in  hand* 
Went  wandering  up  and  down ; 
But  never  more  they  saw  the  man 
Approaching  from  the  Town." 

In  both  of  these  stanzas  the  words  and  the  order  of  the  wordsy 
In  no  respect  differ  from  the  most  unimpassioned  conversation.- 
There  are  words  in  bath,  for  example,  "  the  Strand,"  and  the 
Town,"  connected  with  none  but  the  raoft  familiar  ideas  j  yet 
the  one  stanza  we  admit  as  admirable,  and  the  other  as  a  fair 
example  of  the  superlatively  contemptible.  Whence  arises  this 
difference  ?  Not  from  the  Metre,  not  from  the  language,  not 
from  the  order  of  the  words  j  but  the  matter  expressed  in  Dr. 


xx  PREFACE. 

Johnson's  stanza  is-contemptible.  The  proper  method  of  treat- 
ing trivial  and  simple  verses,  to  which  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza 
would  be  a  fair  parallelism,  is  not  not  to  say,  this  is  a  bad  kind 
o*"  Poetry,  or  this  is  not  Poetry,  but,  this  wants  sense}  itissnci- 
ther  interefting  in  itself,  nor  can  lead  to  any  thing  interesting^ 
the  images  neither  originate  in  that  sane  state  of  feeling  which 
atises  out  of  thought,  nor  can  excite  thought  or  feeling  in  the 
Reader.  This  is  the  only  sensible  manner  of  dealing  with  s»ch 
verses  :  Why  trouble  yourself  about  the  species  till  you  have 
previously  decided  upon  the  genus  ?  Why  take  pains  to  prove 
that  an  Ape  is  not  a  Newton  when  it  is  self  evident  that  he  is 
not  a  man. 

I  have  one  requeft  to  make  of  my  Reader,  which  is,  that  in 
judging  these  Poems  he  would  decide  by  his  own  feelings  genu- 
inely, and  not  by  reflection  upon  what  will  probably  be  the  judg*- 
rnent  of  others.  How  common  is  it  to  hear  a  person  say,  "  I 
myself  do  not  object  to  this  style  of  composition,  or  this  or  that 
expression,  but  to  such  and  such  classes  of  people  it  will  appear 
mean  or  lndicrous."  This  mode  of  criticism,  so  destructive  of 
all  sound  unadulterated  judgement,  is  almost  universal  j  I  have 
therefore -tp  request  that  the  Reader  would  abide  independently 
by  his  own  feelings,  and  that  if  he  finds  himself  affected  he 
would  not  suffer  such  conjectures  to  interfere  with  his  plea- 
sure. 

If  an  Author  by  any  single  composition  has  Impressed  us 
with  respect  for  his  talents,  it  is  useful  to  consider  this  as  af- 
fording a  presumption,  thit,  on  other  occasions  where  we  have 
been  displeased,  he  nevertheless  may  not  have  written  ill  or  ab- 
surdly ;  and,  further,  to  give  him  so  much  credit  for  this  ona 
composition,  as  may  induce  us  to  review  what  has  displeased  us 
with  moieCare  than  we  Should  otherwise  have  bestowed  upon  it. 
This  is  not  only  an  act  of  justice,  but  in  our  decisions,  upon  Po- 
etry especially,  may  conduce  in  a  high  degree  to  (he  improvement 
of  our  own  tast*  5  for  an  accurate  taste  in  Poetry  and  in  all  the  other 
arts  as  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  has  observed,  is  an  acquired talent, 
Which  can  only  be  produced  by  thought  and  a  long  continued 
intercourse  with  the  best  models  of  composition.  This  is  men- 
tioned not  with  so  ridiculous  a  purpose  as  to  prevent  the.  most 


PREFACE.  xxi 

inexperienced  Reader  from  judging  for  himself  (I  have  already 
said  that  I  wish  him  to  judge  for  himself)  but  merely  to  temper 
the  rashness  of  decision,  and  to  suggest  that  if  Poetry  be  a  sub- 
ject on  which  much  time  has  not  been  bestowed,  the  judgment 
may  be  erroneous,  and  that  in  many  cases  it  necessarily  will  be  so. 
I  know  that  nothing  would  have  so  effectually  contributed  to 
further  the  end  which  I  have  in  view,  as  to  have  shewn  of  what 
kind  the  pleasure  is,  and  how  the  pleasure  is  produced  which  is 
confessedly  produced  by  Metrical  composition  essentially  differ- 
ent from  what  I  have  here  endeavoured  to  recommend  j  for  the 
Reader  will  say  that  he  has  been  pleased  by  such  composition, 
and  what  can  I  do  more  for  him  ?  The  power  of  any  art  is  limit- 
ed and  he  will  suspect,  that  if  I  propose  to  furnish  him  with 
new  friends  it  is  only  upon  condition  of  his  abandoning  his  old 
friends.  Besides  as  I  have  said,  the  Reader  is  himself  conscious 
of  the  pleasure  which  he  has  received  from  such  composition, 
composition  to  which  he  has  peculiarly  attached  the  endearing 
name  of  Poetry  j  and  all  men  feel  an  habitual  gratitude,  and 
something  of  an  honorable  bigotry  for  the  objects  which  have 
long  continued  to  please  them-J  we  not  only  wish  to  be  pleased, 
but  to  be  pleased  in  that  particular  way  in  which  we  have  been 
accustomed  to  be  pleased.  There  is  a  host  of  arguments  in  these 
feelings  j  and  I  should  be  the  less  able  to  combat  them  success- 
fully, as  I  am  willing  to  allow*  that,  in  order  entirely  to  en- 
joy the  Poetry  which  I  am  'recommending,,  it  would  be  necessary 
to  give  up  much  of  what  is  ordinarily  enjoyed.  But  would  my 
limits  have  permitted  me  to  point  out  how  this  pleasure  is 
produced,  I  might  have  removed  many  obstacles,  and  assisted 
my  Reader  in  perceiving. that  the  powers  of  language  are  not  so 
limited  as  he  may  suppose  j  and  that  it  is  possible  that  Poetry  may 
give  other  enjoyments,  of  a  purer,  more  lasting  and  more  exqui- 
fite  nature.  But  this  part  of  my  subject  I  have  been  obliged  al- 
together to  omit  j  as  it  has  been  less  my  present  aim  to  prove 
that  the  interest  excited  by  some  other  kinds  of  Poetry  is  less  vi- 
vid, and  less  worthy  of  the  nobler  powers  of  the  mind,  than  to 
offer  reasons  for  presuming,  that,  if  the  object  which  I  have  pro- 
posed to  myself  were  adequately  attained,  a  species  of  Poetry 
would  be  produced,  which  is  genuine  Poetry  j  in  its  nature 
c  a 


«ii  PREFACE. 

well  adapted  to  interest  mankind  permanently,  and  likewise  im- 
p-rtant  in  the  multiplicity  and  quality  of  its  moral  relations*. 

From  what  has  been  said,  and  from  a  perusal  of  the  Poems, 
the  Reader  will  be  able  clearly  to  perceive  the  object  which  I  have 
proposed  to  myself ;  he  will  determine  how  far  I  have  attained* 
this  object;  and,  what  is  a  much  more  important  question,  whe- 
ther it  be  worth  attaining  ;  and  upon  the  decision  of  these  two 
questions  will  rest  my  claim  to  the  approbation  of  the  Public 


LOVE. 


ALL  Thoughts,  all  Passions,  all  Delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  Ministers  of  Love, 

And  feed  his  sacred  flame.: 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  Mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  Ruined  Tower. 

The  Moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  Lights  of  Eve-, 
And  she  was  there,  my  Hope,  my  Joy,. 
My  own  dear  Genevieve'! 

She  lean'd  against  the  Armed  Man, 
The  Statue  of  the  Armed  Kniglit: 
She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  harp 
Amid  the  ling'ring  'light*. 


Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own,. 
My  Hope !  my  Joy !   my  Genevieve ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 

The  Songs,  that  make  her  grieve.. 

I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  Air,, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  Story — 
An  old  rude  Song  that  fitted  well 
The  Ruin  wild  and  hoary.. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  Blush 
With  downcast  Eyes  and  modest  Grace ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I.  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  Face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight,  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'dl 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pin'd :    And,  ah ! 
The  low,  the  deep,  the  pleading  tone, 
With  which  I  sang  another's  Love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  Blush, . 
With  downcast  Eyes  and  modest  Grace; , 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gaz'd 
Too  fondly  on  her  Facei . 


3 


But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
Which  craz'd  this  bold  and  lonely  Knight, 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain  woods 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came,  and  look'd  him  in.  the  face, 
An  Angel  beautiful  and  bright; 
And  that  he  knew,  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight  * 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leapt  amid  a  murd'rous  band, 
Vnd  sav'd  from  Outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land; 

And  how  she  wept  and  clasp'd  his  knees 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain-^- 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  Scorn  that  craz'd  his  brain ; 

And  that  she  mtrs'd  him  in  a  cave ; 
And  how  his  Madness  went  away 
When,  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves. 
A  dying  man  he  lay; 


His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach'cB 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  falt'ring  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturb'd.  her  soul  with  pity ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrill'd  my  guileless  Genevieve, 
The  music,  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  Eve ; 

And  Hopes,  and  Fears  that  kindle  Hope,. 
An  undistinguishable  throng ! 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 

Subdued  and  cherish'd  long! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight^ 
She  blush'd  with  love  and  maiden  shame; 
And,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dEeam, 
I  hearcj  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heav'd — she  stepp'd  aside ; 
As  conscious  of  my.  look,  she  stepp'd—- 
Then  suddenly  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  inclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace; 
And  bending  back  her  head  look'd  up,. 
And  gaz'd  upon  my  face. 


f  Twas  partly  Love,  and  partly  Fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  Art 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  Swelling  of  her  Heart. 

I  calm'd  -her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  Love  with  virgin  pride. 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride ! 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER, 


ARGUMENT. 

How  a  Ship  having  first  sailed  to  the  Equator, 
was  driven  by  Storms  to  the  cold  Country  towards  the 
South  Pole  t  How  the  Ancient  Mariner,  cruelly  and  in  con- 
tempt of  the  Laws  of  Hospitality,  killed  a  Sea-bird  j  and 
how  he  was  followed  by  many  and  strange  Judgments  j  and 
in  what  Manner  he  came  back  to  his  own  Country. 


THE    RIME 

OF    THE 

ANCYENT  MARINERE, 

IN    SEVEN    PARTS. 


It  is  an  ancyent  Marinere, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three: 

V  Ey  thy  long  grey  beard  and  thy  glittering  eye 
il  Now  wherefore  stoppest  me? 

"  The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  open'd  wide 

"  And  I  am  next  of  kin; 
"  The  Guests  are  met,  the  Feast  is  set, — - 

"  May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

But  still  he  holds  the  wedding-guest — 
6  There  was  a  Ship,'  quoth  he — 

"  Nay,  if  thou'st  got  a  laughsome  tale, 
"  Marinere!  come  with  me." 

Vol.  I.       B 


14 


He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
Quoth  he,   '  There  was  a  Ship — ' 

"  Now  get  the  hence,  thou  grey-beard  Loon! 
"  Or  my  Staff  shall  make  thee  skip." 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — ■ 

The  wedding-guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three  year's  child ; 

The  Marinere  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding-guest  sate  on  a  stone, 

He  cannot  chuse  hut  hear: 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancyent  Man, 

The  bright-eyed  Marinere. 

'  The  ship  was  cheer' d,  the  harbour  clear'd— 

*  Merrily  did  we  drop 

*  Eelow  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

'  Below  the  light-house  top. 

-  The  Sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 

*  Out  of  the  sea  came  he: 

*  And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 

*  Went  down  into  the  sea. 

*  Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

'  Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — ' 
The  wedding-guest  here  beat  his  breast, 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 


15 


The  Bride  hath  pac'd  into  the  hall, 

Red  as  a  rose  is  she; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 

The  merry  Minstralsy. 

The  wedding-guest"  he  beat  his  breast, 

Yet  he  cannot  cause  but  hear: 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancyent  Man, 

The  bright-eyed  Marinere. 

c  Listen,  Stranger !    Storm  and  Wind, 

8  A  Wind  and  Tempest  strong ! 
«  For  days  and  weeks  it  play'd  us  freaks— 

*  Like  chafp  we  drove  along. 

1  Listen,  Stranger !    mist  and  snow, 
1  And  it  grew  wond'rous  cauld : 
'  And  ice-  mast-high  came  floating  by 

*  As  green  as  Emerauld. 

'  And  thro'  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 

'  Did  send  a  dismal  sheen ; 
4  Ne  shapes  of  men  ne  beasts  we  ken — > 

*  The  ice  was  all  between. 

*■  The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

*  The  ice  was  all  around: 

*  It  crack'd  andgrowl'd,  androar'dand  howl'd 

*  Like  noises  of  a  swound. 


16 


•  At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross., 

•  Thorough  the  fog  it  came ; 

•  And  an  it  were  a  Christian  Soul, 

4  We  hail'd  it  in  God's  name. 

'  The  marineres  gave  it  bfscuit  worms, 

'  And  round  and  round  it  flew ; 
4  The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit; 

i  The  helmsman  steer'd  us  thro'. 

'  And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind; 

•  The.  Albatross  did  follow ; 

'  And  every  day  for  food  or  play 
1  Came  to  the  Marinere's  hollo ! " 

'  In  mist  cr  cloud  on  mast  or  shroud 
•'It  perch'd  for  vespers  nine, 

•  Whiles  all  the  night  thro'  fog  smoke-white 

•  Glimmer'd  the  white  moonshine. ' 

••God  save  thee,  ancyent  Marinere! 

'•  From  the  Fiends  that  plague  thee  thus — 
•«  Why  look'st  thou  so?" — 'With  my  cross- 
bow 

•  I  shot  the  Albatross!' — 


17 


II. 


*  The  sun  came  up  upon  the  right, 

'  Out  of  the  sea  came  he ; 
'  And  broad  as  a  weft  upon  the  left 

*  Went  down  into  the  sea. 

«  And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 

*  But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
L  Ne  any  day  for  food  or  play 

■  Came  to  the  Marinere's  hollo  ! 

'  And  I  had  done  an  hellish  thing 

*  And  it  would  work  'em  woe': 

*  For  all  averr'd,  I  had  kill'd  the  bird 

'■  That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

I 

'  Ne  dim  ne  red,  like  God's  own  head 
'The  glorious  sun  uprist: 

*  Then  all  averr'd,  I  had  kill'd  the  bird 

'  That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 
"  'Twas  right  (said  they)  such  birds  to  slay 

*  That  bring  the  fog  and  mist." 

Vol.  I.       B  2 


18 

i  The  breezes  Mew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

*  The  furrow  follow'd  free : 

'  We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

*  Into  that  silent  sea. 

'  Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 
'  'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be, 

*  And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 

'  The  silence  of  the  sea. 

'  All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky 

*  The  bloody  sun  at  noon, 

1  Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand,. 
'  No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

*  Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 

'  We  stuck,  ne  breath  ne  motion, 
1  As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 

*  Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

*  Water,  wateV,  every  where, 

'  And  all  the  boards  did  shrink , 
'  Water,  water,  every  where, 

*  Ne  any  drop  to  drink. 

*  The  very  deeps  did  rot:  O  Christ! 

*  That  ever  this  should  be  f 

*  Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  leg£ 

i  Upon  the  slimy  sea. 


19 


6  About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout, 

6  The  death-fires  dancM  at  night; 
«  The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 

*  Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

t  And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
'  Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so : 

1  Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
'  From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

'  And  every  tongue  thro'  utter  drouth 

*  Was  wither'd  at  the  root ; 

i  We  could  not  speak  no  more  than  if 
'  We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

*  Ah  well-a-day!  what  evil  looks 

*  Had  I  from  old  and  young ; 

*  Instead  of  the  Cross  the  Albatros^ 

*  About  my  neck  was  hung. 


20 


III. 


6  I  saw  a  something  in  the  sky 

'  No  bigger  than  my  fist ; 
'  At  first  it  seem'd  a  little  speck 

1  And  then  it  seem'd  a  mist : 

*  It  mov'd,  and  mov'd,  and  took  at  last 

'  A  certain  shape  I  wist. 

4  A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 

'  And  still  it  ner'd  and  ner'd; 
4  And,  an  it  dodg'd  a  water-sprite, 

'  It  plung'd  and  tack'd  and  veer'd. 

*  With  throat  unslack'd,  with  black  lips  bak'dr 

*  Ne  could  we  laugh,  ne  wail: 

'  Then  while  thro'  drouth  all  dumb  they  stood. 
'  1  bit  my  arm  and  suck'd  the  blood 

*  And  cry'd,   A  sail !  a  sail ! 

1  With  throat  unslack'd,  with  black  lips  baVdr 

*  Agape  they  heard  me  call  : 

*  Gramercy  !  they  for  joy  did  grin 

«  And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in 

*  As  they  were  drinking  all. 


21 


c  She  doth  not  tack  from  side  to  side*— 

'  Hither  to  work  us  weal, 
'  Withouten  wind,  withouten  tide 

*  She  sfeddies  with  upright  keel. 

'  The  western  wave  was'  all  a  flame-, 

*  The  day  was  well  nigh  done  I 

*  Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

'  Rested  the  broad  bright  sun ; 
1  When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
'  Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 

1  And  strait  the  sun  was"  fleck'd  with  bars, 

'  (Heaven's  mother  send  us  grace,) 
'  As  if  thro*  a  dungeon  grate  he  peer'd 

*  With  broad  and  burning  face. 

*  Alas  I    (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 

4  How  fast  she  neres  and  neres ! 
e  Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun 
'  Like  restless  Gossameres  ? 

*  Are  those  her  naked  ribs,  which  fieck'd 

6  The  sun  that  did  behind  them  peer  ? 
'  And  are  those  two  all,  all  the  crew, 
*That  woman  and  her  fleshless  Pheere? 


zz 


'  His  bones  were  black  with  many  a  crack? 

'  All  black  and  bare,  I  ween ; 
'  Jet-black  and  bare,  save  where  with  rust 

*  Of  mouldy  damps  and  chamel  crust 

*  They're  patch'd  with  purple  and  green- 

*  Her  lips  are  red,  her  looks  are  free,. 

*  Her  locks  are  yellow  as  gold : 

*  Her  skin  is  as  white  as  leprosy, 

'  And  she  is  far  liker  Death  than  ht\ 
'  Her  flesh  makes  the  still  air  cold*. 

6  The  naked  hulk  alongside  came 

*  And  the  twain  were  playing  dice ; 

"  'The  game  is  done!  I've  won,  I've  won!'* 
4  Quoth  she,  and  whistled  thrice. 

*  A  gust  of  wind  sterte  up  behind 

*  And  whistled  thro'  his  bones ; 

5  Thro'  the  holes  of  his  eyes  and  the  hole  of 

his  mouth 
6  Half- whistles  and  half-groans. 

6  With  never  a  whisper  in  the  sea 

'  Off  darts  the  Spectre  -  ship ; 

*  While  clombe  above  the  Eastern  bar 

*  The  horned  moon,  with  one  bright  star 

*  Almost  atween  the  tips. 


m 


*  One  after  one  by  the  horned  moon, 

*  Listen,  O  stranger !  to  me, 

f  Each  turn'd  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang 

•  And  curs'd  me  with  his  ee. 

'  Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
'  With  never  a  sigh  or  groan, 

6  With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump 
'  They  dropp'd  down  one  by  one. 

1  Their  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly,—* 

•  They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe : 

*  And  every  soul  it  pass'd  me  by, 

*  Like  the  whiz  of  my  Cross-bow,' 


IV. 


*'  I  fear  thee,  an.cyent  Marinere ! 

"  I  fear  thy  skinny  hand; 
*•'  And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown 

"  As  is  the  ribb'd  sea-sand. 

**  I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye 
"  And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown—" 

*  Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  wedding-guest ! 
*  This  body  dropt  not  down. 


24 


e  Alone,  alone,  all  all  alone ! 

'  Alone  on  the  wide  wide  sea; 
c  And  Christ  would  take  no  pity  on 

'  My  soul  in  agony. 

*  The  many  men  so  beautiful, 

'  And  they  all  dead  did  lie ! 

*  And  a  million  million  slimy  things 

'  Liv'd  en — and  so  did  I. 

*  I  look'd  upon  the  rotting  sea, 

*  And  drew  my  eyes  away; 

*  I  look'd  upon  the  eldritch  deck, 

*  And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

*  I  look'd  to  Heaven,  and  try'd  to  pray; 

*  But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
1  A  wicked  whisper  came  and  made 

*  My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

4  1  clos'd  my  lids  and  kept  therti  close, 
'  Till  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

*  For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the. 

sky 
«  Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 

*  *  And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 


*  The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 

6  Ne  rot,  ne  reek  did  they ; 
6  The  look  with  which  they  look'd  on  me, 
1  Had  never  pass'd  away. 

1  An  Orphan's  Curse  would  drag  to  Hell 
'  A  Spirit  from  on  high : 

*  But  O  !  more  horrible  than  that 

'  Is  the  Curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye ! 

*  Seven  days,  seven  nights  I  saw  that  Curse, 

'  And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

'  The  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky 

*  And  no  where  did  abide  : 
'  Softly  she  was  going  up 

'  And  a  star  or  two  beside, — 

'  Her  beams  bemock'd  the  sultry  main 

'  Like  morning  frosts  yspread ; 
'  But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 

*  The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 

'  A  still  and  awful  red. 

*  Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

'  I  watch'd  the  water-snakes ; 

*  They  mov'd  in  tracks  of  shining  white: 
'  and  when  they  rear'd,  the  elfish  light 

*  Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Vol.  I  C 


26 


6  Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

*  I  watch'd  their  rich  attire: 

A  Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet-hlack 
■  They  coilM  and  swain  ;  and  every  track 

*  Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

1  O  happy  living  things !  no  tongue 

*  Their  beauty  might  declare : 

*  A  spring  of  love  gusht  from  my  heart, 
»    *  And  I  bless'd  them  unaware ! 

*  Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

'  And  I  bless 'd  them  unaware. 

'  The  self  same  moment  I  could  pray ; 

*  And  from  my  neck  so  free 

*  The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 

*  Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


27 


V. 


'  O  Sleep!  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 

*  Belov'd  from  Pole  to  Pole ! 

'  To  Mary-queen  the  praise  be  yeverr, 

*  She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven 

*  That  slid  into  my  soul. 

S  The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck 
'  That  had  so  long  remain'd, 

*  I  dreamt  that  they  were  filPd  with  dew, 

4  And  when  I  awoke  it  rain'd. 

'  My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
'  My  garments  all  were  dank ; 

'  Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams 
■  And  still  my  body  drank. 

'  1  mov'd  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs, 
'  I  was  so  light  almost 

*  I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 

'  And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 


'23 


c  The  roaring  wind !  it  roar'd  far  off, 

'  It  did  not  come  anear; 
i  But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails 

'  That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

*  The  upper  air  bursts  Into  life, 

*  And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 
'  To  and  fro  they  are  hurried  about ; 

*  And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 

'  The  stars  dance  on  between. 

*  The  coming  wind  doth  roar  more  loud  j 

*  The  sails  do  sigh  like  sedge: 

•'  The  rain  pours  down  from  one  black  cloud 

*  And  the  moon  is  at  its  edge. 

*  Hark !  hark !"  the  thick  black  cloud  is  clefr, 

*  And  the  moon  is  at  its  side  : 

1  Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 

*  The  lightning  falls  with  never  a  jag 

*  A  river  steep  and  wide. 


*  The  strong  wind  reach'd  the  ship  ;  it  roar'd 

*  And  dropp'd  down  like  a  stone ! 

*  Beneath  the  lightning  and  tjie  moon, 

1  The  dead  men  ga.ve  a  groan 


29 


c  They  groan'd,  they  stirr'd,  they  all  uprose,. 

*  Ne  spake,  ne  mov'd  their  eyes : 

'  It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream 

*  To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

c  The  helmsman  steer'd,  the  ship  mov'd  on; 
'  Yet  never  a  breeze  up -blew ; 

*  The  marineres  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 

'  Where  they  were  wont  to  do: 

*  They  rais'd  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools, — 

c  We  were  a  ghastly  crew- 

c  The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
'  Stood  by  me  knee  to  knee ; 

*  The  body  and  I  pull'd  at  one'  rope>, 

'  'But  he  said  nought  to  me — 

*  And  I  quak'd  to  think  of  my  own  voice 

*  How  frightful  it  would  be ! 

*•  The  day-light  dawn'c{ — they  dropp'd  their 
arms, 

'  And  cluster'd  round  the  mast: 
J  Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  thro'  their  mouths 

'  And  from  their  bodies  pass'd. 

*  Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 

'  Then  darted  to  the  sun : 
'  Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again 

*  Now  mix'd,  now  one  by  one.. 
Vol.  I.  C  2 


30 


c  Sometimes  a  dropping  from  the  sky 

*  I  heard  the  Lavrock  sing ; 

*  Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are 

*  How  they  seem'd  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 

*  With  their  sweet  jargoning, 

6  And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 

*  Now  like  a  lonely  flute; 

6  And  now  it  is  an  Angel's  song 

*  That  makes  the  Heavens  be  mute. 

1  It  ceas'd;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 
'  A  pleasant  noise  till  noon. 

*  A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

'  In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

*  That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

6  Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

c  Listen,  O  listen,  tho*u  wedding-guest  L* 
"  Marinere!  thou  hast  thy  will; 

M  For  that,    which  comes  out  of  thine  eye, 
doth  make 
"  My  body  and  soul  to  be  still." 

i  Never  sadder  tale  was  told 

*  To  a  man  of  woman  born  : 

*  Sadder  and  wiser  thou  wedding-guest  i 

*  Thou'lt  rise  to-morrow  morn-. 


3d 


'  Never  sadder  tale  was  heard 

'  By  a  man  of  woman  born: 
'  The  marineres  all  return'd  to  work 

*  As  silent  as  beforne. 

*  The  marineres  all  'gan  pull  the  ropes, 

1  But  look  at  me  they  n'  old : 
'  Thought  I,  I  am  as  thin  as  air, — 
'  They  cannot  me  behold. 

'  Till  noon  we  silently  sail'd  on 

*  Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe , 

*  Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship 

*  Mov'd  onward  from  beneath. 

6  Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep; 

*  From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow 

*  The  Spirit  slid;  and  it  was  He 

1  That  made  the  ship  to  go. 

*  The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune 

*  And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

*  The  sun  right  up  above  the  mast 

*  Had  fixt  her  to  the  ocean : 
'  But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir 

■  With  a  short  uneasy  motion; — 
1  Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 

*  With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 


32 


4  Then,  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
'  She  made  a  sudden  bound: 

*  It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 

1  And  I  fell  into  a  swound. 

*  How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 

*  I  have  not  to  declare; 

*  But  ere  my  living  life  return' d, 

*  I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discern'd 

*  Two  Voices  in  the  air.. 

"  Is  it  he?   (quoth  one)  Is  this  the  man? 

u  By  him  who  died  on  Cross, 
"  With  his  cruel  bow  he  lay'd  full  low 

"  The  harmless  Albatross. 

"  The  Spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
"  In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

"  He  lov'd  the  bird  that  lov'd  the  man* 
"  Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.'* 

1  The  other  was-  a  softer  voice, 

*  As  soft  as  honey-dew: 

*-. Quoth  he,  "  The  man  hath  penance  done*. 
'■'  And  penance  more*  will  do." 


'33 


VI. 


'  First  Voice. 
"  But  tell  me,  tell  me  J  speak  again, 

H  Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
"  What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast ! 

"  What  is  the  Ocean  doing?" 

f  Second  Voice. 

"  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 

"  The  Ocean  hath  no  blast: 
"  His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 

"  Up  to  the  moon  is  cast,— - 

V  If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go, 
"  For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 

"  See,  brother,  see !  how  graciously 
"  She  looketh  down  on  him." 

1  First  Voice. 

"  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast 
"  Withouten  wave  or  wind?" 


34 

-    *  Second  Voice. 

"  The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
"  And  closes  from  behind. 

"  Fly,  brother,  fly !    more  high,  more  high, 

"  Or  we  shall  be  belated: 
"  For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 

"  When  the  MarinereTs  trance  is  abated. '* 

4  I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

*  As  in  a  gentle  weather: 

*  Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  moon  was  high ; 

'  The  dead  men  stood  together. 

'  All  stood  together  on  the  deek^ 

*  For  a  charnel  dungeon  fitter : 

*  All  fix'd  on  roe  their  stony  eyes 

'  That  in  the  moon  did  glitter. 

*  The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 

6  Had  never  pass'd  away: 

*  I  could  not  draw  my  een  from  theirs. 

*  Ne  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

*  And  in  its  time  the  spell  was  snapt, 

*  And  I  could  move  my  een : 

6  I  look'd  far-forth,  but  little  saw 
'  Qf  what  might  else  be  seen. 


35 


*  Like  one,  that  on  a  lonely  road 

'  Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 
4  And  having  once  turn'd  round,  walks  on, 

■  And  turns  no  more  his  head; 
6  Because  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend 

*  Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

c  But  soon  there  breath'd  a  wind  on  me, 

*  Ne  sound  ne  motion  made : 
'  Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea 

(  In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

1  It  rais'd  my  hair,  it  fann'd  my  cheek 
'  Like  a  meadow- gale  of  spring=5r- 

'  It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
6  Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

'  Swiftly,  swiftly,  flew  the  ship, 
'  Yet  she  sail'd  softly  too : 

*  Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze— 

*  On  me  alone  it  blew.  « 

i  O  dream  of  joy !   is  this  indeed 

*  The  light-house  top  I  see ! 

'  Is  this  the  hill?  Is  this  the  kirk? 

*  Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 


36 


'  We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour  bar, 

*  And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 

*  O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God! 

'  Or  let  me  sleep  alway! 

'  The  harbour  bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
6  So  smoothly  it  was  strewn ! 

*  And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 

'  And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

*  The  moonlight  bay  was  white  all  o'er, 

'  Till  rising  from  the  same, 

*  Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 

*  Like  as  of  torches  came. 

*  A  little  distance  from  the  prow 

'  Those  dark-red  shadows  were ; 
6  But  soon  I  saw  that  my  own  flesh 
4  Was  red  as  in  a  glare. 

'  I  turn'd  my  head  in  fear  and  dread, 
6  And  by  the  holy  rood, 

*  The  bodies  had  advanced,  and  now 

*  Before  the  mast  they  stood. 


37 


'  They  lifted  up  their  stiff  right-arms, 
1  They  held  them  straight  and  tight; 

*  And  each  right-arm  burnt  like  a  torch, 

*  A  torch  that's  borne  upright. 

*  Their  stony  eye-balls  glittered  on 

*  In  the  red  and  smokey  light. 

c  I  pray'd  and  turn'd  my  head  away 

'  Forth  looking' as  before, 
1  There  was  no  breeze  upon  the  bay, 

'  No  wave  against  the  shore. 

*  The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less 

*•  That  stands  above  the  rock : 

*  The  moonlight  steep'd  in  silentness 

*  The  steady  weathercock. 

*  And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 

*  Till  rising  from  the  same 

«  Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
'  In  crimson  colours  came. 

*  A  little  distance'  from  the  prow 

'  Those  crimson  shadows  were: 

6  I  turn'd  my  eyes  upon  the  deck— 

'  O  Christ !  what  saw  I  there  ? 

Vol.  1.  D 


3S 


*  Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat; 

'  And  by  the  holy  rood, 

*  A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 

'  On  every- corse  there  stood. 

*  This  seraph-band,  each  -wav'd  his  hand; 

*  It  was  a  heavenly  sight: 

*  They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 

*  Each  one  a  lovely  light: 

*  This  seraph-band,  each  wav'd  his  hand; 

'  No  voice  did  they  impart, — 

*  No  voice.;  but  O  i   the  silence  sank 

'  Like  music  on  my  heart. 

4  Eftsones  I  heard  .the  dash  of  oars, 
6  I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer; 

*  My  head  was  turn'd  per  force  away 

4  And  I  saw  a  boat  appear, 

6  Then  vanish'd  all  the  lovely  lights; 
'  The  bodies  rose  anew : 

*  With  silent  pace,  each  to  his  place, 

*  Came  back  the  ghastly  crew. 

*  The  wind  that  shade  nor  motion  made 

*  On  me  alone  it. blew. 


The  Piloi 


It  and  the  Pilot's  Boy 

*  I  heard  them  coming  fast : 

'  Dear  Lord  in  Heaven !  it  was  a  joy 

*  The  dead"  men  could  not  blast. 

'  I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice  : 

'  It  is  the  Hermit  good ! 
*  He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

'  That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 
«  He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

4  The  Albatross's  blood, 


VII. 


*  This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 

*  Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea : 

*  How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears ! 

*  He  loves  lo  talk  with  marineres 

*  That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

*  He  kneels  at  morn  and  noon  and  eve— 

'  He  hath  a  cushion  plump : 
J-  It  is  the  moss,  that  wholly  hides 
'  The  rotted  old  oak  stump.** 


40 


J  The  skiff-boat  ner'd,  I  heard  thei 
"  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow] 

"  Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair 
"  That  signal  made  but  now? 

"  Srrange,  by  my  faith!"  the  Hermit  said — 
"  And  tjiey  answer 'd  not  our  cheer: 

«  The  planks  look  warp'd,  and  see  those  sails 
"  How  thin  they  are  and  sere ! 

"  I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them 
"  Unless  perchance  it  were — i 

*•  The  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 

"  My  forest  brook  along: 
"  When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
**  And  the  Owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below 

"  That  eat»  the  she  wolf's  young." 

"  Dear  Lord !  It  has  a  fiendish  look — 

(The  Pilot  made  reply) 
"  I  am  afear'd!" — "  Push  on,  push  on!" 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

4  The  boat  came  closer  to  the  6hip, 

*  But  I  ne  spake  ne  stirr'd ! 

4  The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship$ 

*  And  strait  a  sound  was  heard ! 


'■  Srill  lot 


4t 


Ui^i  JRe  water  it  rumbled  on, 
louder  and  more  dread : 
1  It  reach'd  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay; 
'  The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

'  Stunn'd  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

*  Which  sky  and  ocean  smote : 

'  Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drown' d 

4  My  body  lay  afloat : 
■  But,  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

*  Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

*  Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 

*  The  boat  spun  round  and  round: 
'And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 

*  Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

*  I  mov'd  my  lips ;  the  Pilot  shriek'd 

'  And  fell  down  in  a  fit : 

*  The  holy  Hermit  rais'd  his  eyes 

*  And  pray'd  where  he  did  sit. 

6  1  took  the  oars:  the  Pilot's  boy, 

*  Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

'  Laugh'd  loud  and  long,  and  all  xhe  while 

*  His  eyes  went  to  and  fro; 

"  Ha!  ha!"  quoth  he — "  full  plain  I  see, 
"  The  Devil  knows  how  to  row." 
Vol.  I.  D  2 


42 


1  And  now  all  in  mine  own  countrt 

c  I  stoocf  on  the  firm  land ! 
'  The  Hermit  stepp'd  forth  from  the  boat, 

'  And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

'  O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  Holy  Man ! 

*  The  Hermit  cross'd  his  brow — 
"  Say  quick,"  quoth  he,  "  1  bid  thee  say 

"  What  manner  man  art  thou?" 

«  Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrench'd 

1  With  a  woeful  agony, 
'  Which  forc'd  me  to  begin  my  tale 

'  And  then  it  left  me  free. 

'  Since  then  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
■  Now  oftimes,  and  now  fewer, 

'  That  anguish  comes,  and  makes  me  tell 
'  My  ghastly  aventure. 

'I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land; 
'  I  have  strange  power  of  speech ; 

*  The  moment  that  his  face  I  see    * 

•  I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me; 

*To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 


43? 

s  Wh|§Mroud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door! 

*  The  Wedding-guests  are  there; 

6  But  in  the  garden-bower  the  Bride 
'  And  bride-maids  singing  are . 

*  And  hark !  the  little  vesper-bell 

'  Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer. 

*  O  Wedding-guest !  this  soul  hath  been 

1  Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea: 

*  So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 

*  Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

*  O  sweeter  than  the  Marriage-feast, 

*  'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me 

*  To  walk  together  to  the  Kirk 

*  With  a  goodly  company. 

'  To  walk  together  to  the  Kirk 

*  And  altogether  pray, 

*  While  each  to  his  Great  Father  bends, 

*  Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

*  And  youths,  and  maidens  gay. 

1  Farewell,  farewell !    but  this  I  tell 

*  To  thee,   thou  Wedding-guest! 
'  He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well, 

4  Both  man.,  and  bird,  and  beast. 


c  He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best,    * 
*  All  things  both  great  and  small : 

'  For  the  dear  God,  who  loveth  us,. 
'  He  made  and  loveth  all.' 

The  Marinere,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 

Is  gone  j  and  now  the  Wedding-guest 
Turn'd  from  the  Bridegroom's  door. 

He  went,  like  one  that  hath  been  stunn'd 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn  : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 

He  rose  the  morrow  morn.. 


45 


THE 

FOSTER-MOTHERS  TALE, 

A  DRAMATIC  FRAGMENT. 


FOSTER-MOTHER. 

I  never  saw  the  man  whom  you  describe. 

Maria. 

*Tis  strange !  he  spake  of  you  familiarly 
As  mine  and  Albert's  common  Foster-mother. 

FoSTER-MoTHER. 

Now  blessings  on  the  man,  whoe'er  he  be, 
That  joined  your  names  with  mine  1    O  my 

sweet  lady, 
As  often  as  I  think  of  those  dear  times 
When  you  two  little  ones  would  stand  at  eve 
On  each  side  of  my  chair,  and  make  me  learn 
All  you  had  learnt  in  the  day ;  and  how  to  talk 
In  gentle  phrase,  then  bid  me  sing  to  you — 
'Tis  more  like  heaven  to  come  than  what  has 

been. 


46 


Maria. 

O  my  dear  Mother !  this  strange  man  has  left 

me 
Troubled  with  wilder  fancies,  than  the  moon 
Breeds  in  the  love-sick  maid  who  gazes  at  it, 
Till  lost  in  inward  vision,  with  wet  eye 
She  gazes  idly! — But  that  entrance,  Mother [ 

Foster-Mother. 
Can  no  one  hear?  It  is  a  perilous  tale  L 

Maria. 
No  one! 

FosTER-MoTHERr 

My  husband's  father  told  it  me, 
Poor  old  Leoni! — Angels  rest  his  soul  [ 
He  was  a  woodman,  and  could  fell  and  saw 
With  lusty  arm.    You  know  that  huge  round 

beam 
Which  props  the  hanging-  wall  of  the  old  chapel  ? 
Beneath  that  tree,  while  vet  it  was  a  tree, 
He  found  a  baby  wrapt  in  mosses,  lined 
With  thistle-beards,  and  such  small  locks  of 
.    wool 
As  hang  on  brambles.    Well,  he  brought  him 

home, 
And  reared  him  at  the  then  Lord  Yelez'  cost*. 


m 


And  so  the  babe  grew  up  a  pretty  bay, 
A  pretty  boy,  but  most  unteachable — 
And  never  learnt  a  prayer,  nor  told  a  bead, 
But  knew  the  names  of  birds,    and  mocked 

their  notes, 
And  whistled,  as  he  were  a  bird  himself: 
And  all  the  autumn  'twas  his  only  play 
To  get  the  seeds  of  wild  flowers,  and  to  plant 

them 
With  earth  and  water,  on  the  stumps  of  trees. 
A  Friar,  who  gathered  simples  in  the  wood, 
A  grey-haired  man — he  loved  this  little  boy, 
The  boy  loved  him — and,  when  the  Friar 

taught  him, 
He  soon  could  write  with  the  pen^  and  from 

that  time, 
Lived  chiefly  at  the  Convent  or  the  Castle. 
So  he  became  a  very  learned  youth. 
But  Oh !    poor  wretch  !— he  read,  and  read, 

and  read, 
'Till  his  brain  turned — and  ere  his  twentieth 

year, 
He  had  unlawful  thoughts  of  many  things : 
And  though  he  prayed,  he  never  loved  to  pray 
With  holy  men,  nor  in  a  holy  place  ; — 
But  yet  his  speech,  it  was  so  soft  and  sweet, 
The  late  Lord  Velez  ne'er  was  wearied  with 
Jiim-: 


43 


And  once,  as  by  the  north  side  of  the  Chapel 
They  stood  together,  chained  in  deep  discourse, 
The  earth  heaved  under  them  withsuch  a  groan, 
That  the  wall  tottered,  and  had  well  nigh  fallen 
Right  on  their  heads.     My  Lord  was  sorely 

frightened ; 
A  fever  seized  him,  and  he  made  confession 
Gf  all  the  heretical  and  lawless  talk 
Which  brought  this  judgment:  So  the  youth 

was  seized 
And  cast  into  that  hole.    My  husband's  father 
Sobbed  like  a  child — it  almost  broke  his  heart : 
And  once  as  he  was  working  in  the  cellar, 
He  heard  a  voice  distinctly;  'twas  the  youth's, 
Who  sung  a  doleful  gong  about  green  fields, 
How  sweet  it  were  on  lake  or  wild  Savannah 
To  hunt  for  food,  and  be  a  naked  man, 
And  wander  up  and  down  at  liberty. 
He  always  doted  on  the  youth,  and  now 
His  love  grew  desperate ;  and  defying  death, 
He  made  that  cunning  entrance  I  described: 
And  the  young  man  escaped. 

Maria. 

'Tis  a  sweet  tale  : 
Such  as  would  lull  a  listening  child  to  sleep, 
His  rosy  face  besoiled  with  unwiped  tears. — 
And  what  became  of  him  ? 


4D 


Foster-Mother. 

He  went  on  ship-board 
With  those  bold  voyagers,  who  made  discovery 
Of  golden  lands.     Leoni's  younger  brother 
Went  likewise,  and  when  he  returned  to  Spain, 
He  told  Leoni,  that  the  poor  mad  youth, 
Soon  after  they  arrived  in  that  new  world, 
In  spite  of  his  dissuasion,  seized  a  boat, 
And  all  alone,  set  sail  by  silent  moonlight 
Up  a  great  river,  great  as  any  sea, 
And  ne'er  was  heard  of  more ;  but  'tis  supposed, 
He  lived  and  died  among  the  savage  men. 


Vol.  I 


51 


LINES 

LEFT    UPON    A    SEAT    IN 

A  YEW-TREE 

Which  stands  near  the  Lake  of  Esthwaite, 

ON    A    DESOLATE    PART    OF     THE    SHORE 

YET  COMMANDING  A  BEAUTIFUL  PROSPECT, 


— Nay,  Traveller !  rest.  This  lonely  Yew- 
tree  stands 
Far  from  all  human  dwelling ;  what  if  here 
No  sparkling  rivulet  spread  the  verdant  herb  5 
What  if  these  barren  boughs  the  bee  not  loves  ; 
Yet,  if  the  wind  breathe  soft,  the  curling  waves 
That  break  against  the  shore,  shall  lull  thy  mind 
By  one  soft  impulse  saved  from  vacancy. 


-Who  he  was 


That  pil'd  these  stones,  and  with  the  mossy  sod 
First  cover  d  o'er,  and  taught  this  aged  Tree, 
Now  wild,  to  bend  its  arms  in  circling  shade, 
I  well  remember. — He  was  one  who  own'd 
No  common -soul.    In  youth,  by  genius  nurs'd, 


52 


And  big  with  lofty  views,  he  to  the  world 
Went  forth,  pure  in  his  heart,  against  the  taint 
Of  dissolute  tongues,  'gainst  jealousy,  and  hate, 
And  scorn,  against  all  enemies  prepared, 
All  but  neglect;  and  so,  his  spirit  damped 
At  once,  with  rash  disdain  he  turn'd  away, 
And  with  the  food  of  pride  sustained  his  soul 
In  solitude.— Stranger !  these  gloomy  boughs 
Had  charms  for  him ;  and  here  he  loved  to  sit, 
His  only  visitants  a  straggling  sheep, 
The  stone-chat,  or  the  glancing  sand-piper; 
And  on  these  barren  rocks,  with  juniper, 
And  heath,  and  thistle,  thinly  sprinkled  o'er, 
Fixing  his  downward  eye,  he  many  an  hour 
A  morbid  pleasure  nourished,  tracing  here 
An  emblem  of  his  own  unfruitful  life: 
And  lifting  up  his  head,  he  then  would  gaze 
On  the  more  distant  scene;  how  lovely-'tis 
Thou  seest,  and  he  would  gaze  till  it  became 
Far  lovelier,  and  his  heart  could  not  sustain 
The  beauty  still  more  beauteous.     Nor,  that 

time, 
Would  he  forget  those  beings,  to  whose  minds, 
Warm  from  the  labours  of  benevolence, 
The  world,  and  man  himself,  appeared  a  scene 
Of  kindred  loveliness:  Then  he  would  sigh 
With  mournful  joy,  to  think  that  others  felt 
What  he  must  never  feel ;  and  so,  lost  man  I 
On  visionary  views  would  fancy  feed, 


53 


Till  his  eye  streamed  with  tears.     In  this  deep 

vale 
He  died,  this  seat  his  only  monument* 


If  thou  be  one  whose  heart  the  holy  forms- 
Of  young  imagination  have  kept  pure, 
Stranger!    henceforth  be  warned;  and  know, 

that  Pride, 
Howe'er  disguised  in  its  own  majesty, 
Is  littleness;  that  he  who  feels  contempt 
For  any  living  thing,  hath  faculties 
Which  he  has  never  used;  that  Thought  with 

him 
Is  in  its  infancy.     The  man,  whose  eye 
Is  ever  on  himself,  doth  look  on  one, 
The  least  of  Nature's  works,  one  who  might 

move 
The  wise  man  to  that  scorn  which  wisdom 

holds 
Unlawful,  ever.     O,  be  wiser  thou ! 
Instructed  that  true  knowledge  leads  to  love ; 
True  dignity  abides  with  him  alone 
Who,  in  the  silent  hour  of  inward  thought, 
Can  still  suspect,  and  still  revere  himself, 
In  lowliness  of  heart. 


Vol.  I.  E  2 


55 


THE  NIGHTINGALE; 

A    CONVERSATIONAL    POEM,     WRITTEN    IN    APRIL, 
1798. 


NO  cloud,  no  relique  of  the  sunken  day- 
Distinguishes  the  West,  no  long  thin  slip 
Of  sullen  Light,  no  obscure  trembling  hues. 
Come,  we  will  rest  on  this  old  mossy  Bridge ! 
You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath, 
But  hear  no  murmuring ;  it  flows  silently 
O'er  its  soft  bed  of  verdure.     All  is  still, 
A  balmy  night !  and  thor  the  stars  be  dim, 
Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 
That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall  find 
A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 
And  hark !  the  Nightingale  begins  its  song, 
"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy"*  Bird! 


*  "  Most  musical,  most  melancholy"  This  passage 
hi  Milton  possesses  an  excellence  far  superior  to  that 
of  mere  description  :  It  is  spoken  in  the  character  of 
the  melancholy  Man,  and  has  therefore  a  dramatic 


56 


A  melancholy  Bird  ?  O  idle  thought ! 

In  Nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 

— But  some  night-wandering  Man,    whose 

heart  was  pierc'd 
With  the  remembrance  of  a  grievous  wrong, 
Or  slow  distemper,  or  neglected  love, 
(And  so,  poor  Wretch !  fill'd  all  things  with 

himself 
And  made  all  gentle  sounds  tell  back  the  tale 
Of  his  own  sorrows)  he,  and  such  as  he, 
First  nam'd  these  notes  a  melancholy  strain; 
And  many  a  poet  echoes  the  conceit ; 
Poet,  who  hath  been  building  up  the  rhyme 
When  he  had  better  far  have  stretch'd  Ins  limbs 
Beside  a  brook  in  mossy  forest-dell, 
By  sun  or  moonlight,  to  the  influxes 
Of  shapes  and  sounds  and  shifting  elements 
Surrendering  his  whole  spirit,  of  his  song 
And  of  his  fame  forgetful !  so  his  fame. 
Should  share  in  Nature's  immortality,. 
A  venerable  thing !  and  so  his  song 
Should  make  all  Nature  lovelier,  and  itself 


propriety.  The  Author  makes  this  remark,  to  res- 
cue himself  from  the  charge  of  having  alluded  with 
levity  to  a  line  iu  Milton  :  A  charge  than  which 
none  could  be  more  painful  to  him,  except  perhaps, 
that  of  having  ridiculed  his  Bible. 


57 


Be  lov'd,  like  Nature !    Eut  'twill  not  be  so; 
And  youths  and  maidens  most  poetical 
Who  lose  the  deep'ning  twilights  of  the  spring 
In  ball-rooms  and  hot  theatres,  they  still 
Full  of  meek  sympathy  must  heave  their  sighs 
O'er  Philomela's  pity  pleasing  strains. 
My  Friend,  and  my  Friend's  Sister !  we  have 

learnt 
A  different  lore ;  we  may  not  thus  profane 
Nature's  sweet  voices  always  full  of  love 
And  joyance!    'Tis  the  merry  Nightingale 
That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 
With  fast  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes, 
As  he  were  fearful,  that  an  April  night 
Would  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 
His  love-chant,  and  disburthen  his  full  soul 
Of  all  its  music !    And  I  know  a  grove 
Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a  castle  huge, 
Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  not;  and  so 
This  grove  is  wild  with  tangling  underwood. 
And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up,  and  grass, 
Thin  grass  and  king-cups  grow  within  the 

paths. 
But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  I  knew 
So  many  Nightingales ;   and  far  and  near 
In  wood  and  thicket  over  the  wide  grove 
They  answer  and  provoke  each  others  songs — » 
With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings, 
And  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug,  jug, 


58 


And  one  lowpiping  sound  more  sweet  than  all- — 
Stirring  the  air  with  such  an  harmony, 
That  should  you  close  your  eyes,   you  might 

almost 
Forget  it  was  not  day !   On  moonlight  bushes, 
Whose  dewy  leafits  are  but  half  disclos'd 
You  may  perchance  behold  them  on  the  twigs, 
Their  bright,  bright  eyes,  their  eyes  both  bright 

and  full, 
Glist'ning,   while  many  a  glow-worm  in  the 

shade 
Lights  up  her  love-torch^ 


A  most  gentle  maid 
Who  dwelleth  in  her  hospitable  home 
Hard  by  the  Castle,  and  at  latest  eve 
(Even  like  a  Lady  vow'd  and  dedicate 
To  something  more  than  Nature  in  the  grove) 
Glides  thro'  the  pathways ;  she  knows  all  their 

notes, 
That  gentle  Maid  I  and  oft,  a  moment's  space, 
What  time  the  moon  was  lost  behind  a  cloud, 
Hath  heard  a  pause  of  silence;  till  the  Moon 
Emerging,  hath  awaken'd  earth  and  sky 
With  one  sensation,  and. those  wakeful  Birds 
Have  all  burst  forth  in  choral  minstrelsy, 
As  if  one  quick  and  sudden  Gale  had  swept 
An  hundred  airy  harps !  And  she  hath  watch'd 


S3 


Many  a  Nightingale  perch  giddily 
On  blosmy  twig  still  swinging  from  the  breeze,' 
And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song, 
Like  tipsy  Joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head.'7 


Farewell,  O  Warbler!  till  to-morrow  eve, 
And  you,  my  friends !  farewell,  a  short  fare- 
well! 
We  have  been  loitering  long  and  pleasantly, 
And  now  fo,r  our  dear  homes. — That  strain 

again ! 
Full  fain  it  would  delay  me ! — My  dear  Babe, 
Who,  capable  of  no  articulate  sound, 
Mars  all  things  with  his  imitative  lisp, 
How  he  would  place  his  hand  beside  his  ear, 
His  little  hand,  the  small  forefinger  up, 
And  bid  us  listen !  And  I  deem  it  wise 
To  make  him  Nature's  playmate.    He  knows 

well 
The  evening  star ;  and  once  when  he  awoke 
In  most  distressful  mood  (some  inward  pain 
Had  made  up  that  strange  thing,   an  infant's 

dream) 
I  hurried  with  him  to  our  orchard  plot, 
And  he  beholds  the  moon,  and  hush'd  at  once 
Suspends  his  sobs,  and  laughs  most  silently, 
While  his  fair  eyes  that  swam  with  undropt 
tears 


60 


Did  glitterin  the  yellowmoon-beam !  Well  !— 
It  is  a  father's  tale:  But  if  that  Heaven 
Should  give  me  life,  his  childhood  shall  grow 

up 
Familiar  with  these  songs,  that  with  the  night 
He  may  associate  joy  f  Once  more  farewell 
Sweet  Nightingale  J   once  more,  my  friend* ! 

fere  well. 


61 


THE 


FEMALE   VAGRANT. 


BY  Derwent's  side  my  Father's  cottage  stood, 
(The  Woman  thus  her  artless  story  told) 
One  field,  a  flock,  and  what  the  neighbouring 

flood 
Supplied,  to  him  were  more  than  mines  of  gold. 
Light  was  my  sleep ;  mvdays  in  transport  roll'd : 
With  thoughtless  joy  I  stretch'd  along  the  shore 
My  father's  nets,  or  watched,  when  from  the 

fold 
High  o'er  the  cliffs  I  led  my  fleecy  store, 
A  dizzy  depth  below !  his  boat  and  twinkling 

oar. 

My  father  was  a  good  and  pious  man, 
An  honest  man,  by  honest  parents  bred. 
And  I  believe  that,  soon  as  I  began 
To  lisp,  he  made  me  kneel  beside  my  bed, 
And  in  his  hearing  there  my  prayers  I  said ; 
And  afterwards,  by  my  good  father  taught, 
I  read,  and  loved  the  books  in  which  I  read ; 
Vol.  I.  F 


62 


For books  in  every  neighbouring  house  T  sought, 
And  nothing  to  my  mind  a  sweeter  pleasure 
brought. 


Can  I  forget  what  charms  did  once  adorn 

My  garden,  stored  with  peas,  and  mint,  and 
thyme, 

And  rose  and  lilly  for  the  sabbath  morn  ; 

The  sabbath  bells,  and  their  delightful  chime ; 

The  gambols  and  wild  freaks  at  shearing  time ; 

My  hen's  rich  nest  through  long-grass  scarce 
espied; 

The  cowslip-gathering  at  May's  dewy  prime ; 

The  swans,  that,  when  I  sought  the  water- 
side 

From  far  to  meet  me  came,  spreading  their 
snowy  pride? 


The  staff  I  yet  remember  which  upbore 
The  bending  body  of  my  active  Sire; 
His  seat  beneath  the  honeyed  Sycamore 
When  the  bees  hummed,  and  chair  by  winter 

fire; 
When  market  morning  came,  the  neat  attire 
With  which,  though  bent  on  haste,  myself  I 

deck'd; 
My  watchful  dog,  whose  starts  of  furious  ire 


63 


When  stranger  passed,  so  often  I  have  check'd ; 
The  red-breast  known  for  years,  which  at  my 
casement  peck'd. 

The  suns  of  twenty  summers  danc'd  along, — 
Ah  !  little  marked,  how  fast  they  rolled  away : 
Then  rose  a  mansion  proud  our  woods  among, 
And  cottage  after  cottage  owned  its  sway; 
No  joy  to  see  a  neighbouring  house,  or  stray 
Through  pastures  not  his  own,  the  master  took ; 
My  Father  dared  his  greedy  wish  gainsay, 
He  loved  his  old  hereditary  nook, 
And  ill  could  I  the  thought  of  such  sad  parting 
brook. 

But,  when  he  had  refused  the  proffered  gold, 
To  cruel  injuries  he  became  a  prey, 
Sore  traversed  in  whate'er  he  bought  and  sold; 
His  troubles  grew  upon  him  day  by  day : 
Till  all  his  substance  fell  into  d<eeay. 
His  little  range  of  water  was  denied;* 
All  but  the  bed  where  his  old  body  lay, 
All,  all  was  seized,  and  weeping,  side  by  side, 
We  sought  a  home  where  we  uninjured  might 
abide. 

*  Several  of  the  Lakea  in  the  'North  of  England 
are  let  out  to  different  Fishermen,  in  parcels  marked 
out  by  imaginary  lines  drawn  from  rock  to  rock. 

- 
m 


64> 


Can  I  forget  that  miserable  hour, 
When  from  the  last  hill  top,  my  Sire  surveyed, 
Peering  above  the  trees,  the  steeple  tower, 
That  on  his  marriage-day  sweet  music  made  ? 
Till  then  he  hoped  his  bones  might  there  be  laid 
Close  by  my  mother  in  their  native  bowers : 
Bidding  me  trust  in  God,  he  stood  and  prayed,-*- 
I  could  not  pray  ;-—^Through  tears  that  fell  in 

showers, 
Glimmer' d  our  dear  lov'd  home,   alas!    no 

longer  ours! 

There  was  a  youth  whom  I  had  loved  so  long 
That  when  I  loved  him  not  I  cannot  say ; 
'Mid  the  green  mountains  many  andmany  a  song 
We  two  had  sung,  like  little  birds  in  May : 
When  we  began  to  tire  of  childish  play 
We  seemed  still  more  and  more  to  prize  each 

other ; 
We  talked  of  marriage  and  our  marriage  day ; 
And  1  in  truth  did  love  him  like  a  brother, 
For  never  could  1  hope  to  meet  with  such 

another. 

His  father  said,  that  to  a  distant  town 
He  must  repair,  to  ply  the  artist's  trade. 
What  tears  of  bitter  grief  till  then  unknown  ? 
What  tender  vows  our  last  sad  kiss  delayed  1 
To  him  we  turned ;  we  had  no  other  aid. 


(>5 


Like  one  revived,  upon  his  neck  I  wept, 
And  her  whom  he  had  loved  in  joy,  he  said 
He  well  could  love  in  grief ;  his  faith  he  kept ; 
And  in  a  quiet  home  once  more  my  father  slept. 


Four  years  each  day  with  daily  bread  was  blest, 
By  constant  toil  and  constant  prayer  supplied. 
Three  lovely  infants  lay  upon  my  breast, 
And  often,  viewing  their  sweet  smiles,  I  sighed 
And  knew  not  why.     My  happy  father  died 
When  sad  distress  reduced  the  children's  meal  : 
Thrice  happy !  that  from  him  the  grave  did  hide 
The  empty  loom,  cold  hearth,  and  silent  wheel, 
And  tears  that  flowed  for  ills  which  patience 
could  not  heal. 


*Twas  a  hard  change,  an  evil  time  was  come; 
We  had  no  hope,  and  no  relief  could  gain. 
But  soon,  with  proud  parade,  the  noisy  drum 
Beat  round,  to  sweep  the  streets  of  want  and 

pain. 
My  husband's  arms  now  only  served  to  strain 
Me  and  his  children,  hungering  in  his  view : 
In  such  dismay  my  prayers  and  tears  were  vain, 
To  join  those  miserable  men  he  flew ; 
And  now  to  the  sea-coast,  with  numbers  more, 

we  drew. 

Vol.  I.  F  2 


66 


There  foul  negleet  for  months  and  months  we 

bore, 
Nor  yet  the  crowded  fleet  its  anchor  stirred- 
Green  fields  before  us  and  our  native  shore ; 
By  fever,  from  polluted  air  incurred, 
Ravage  was  made,  for  which  no  knell  was  heard. 
Fondly  we  wished,  and  wished  away,  nor  knew,. 
'Mid  that  long  sickness,  and  those  hopes  deferred 
That  happier  days  we  never  more  must  view  i 
The  parting  signal  streamed,  at  last,  the  land 

withdrew. 

But  from  delay  the  summer  calms  were  past.. 
On  as  we  drove,  the  equinoctial  deep 
Ran  mountains-high  before  the  howling  blast:. 
We  gazed  with  terror  on  the  gloomy  sleep 
Of  them  that  perished  in  the  whirlwind's  sweep,. 
Untaught  that  soon  such  anguish  must  ensue,. 
Our  hopes  such  harvest  of  affliction  reap, 
That  we  the  mercy  of  the  waves  should  rue:: 
We  reached  the  western  world,   a  poor,   de- 
voted crew. 

Oh !  dreadful  price  of  Being  to  resign 

All  that  is  dear  in  being !  better  far 

In  Want's  most  lonely  cave  till  death  to  pine^ 

Unseen,  unheard,  unwatch'd  by  any  star; 

Or  in  the  streets  and  walks  where  proud  men  are, 

Better  our  dying  bodies  to  obtrude, 

Than  dog-like,  wading  at  the  heels  of  war, 


67 


Protract  a  curs'd  existence,  with  the  brood 
That  lap  (their  very  nourishment ! )  their  bro- 
ther's blood ! 

The  pains  and  plagues  that  on  our  heads  came 

down, 
Disease  and  famine,  agony  and  fear, 
In  wood  or  wilderness,  in  camp  or  town, 
It  would  thy  brain  unsettle  even  to  hear. 
All  perished  ? — all,  in  one  remorseless  year; 
Husband  and  children !  one  by  one,  by  sword 
And  ravenous  plague,  all  perished !  every  tear 
Dried  up,  despairing,  desolate,  on  board 
A  British  ship  I  waked,  as  from  a  trance  restored. 

Peaceful  as  some  immeasurable  plain 

By  the  first  beams  of  dawning  light  impress'd, 

In  the  calm  sunshine  slept  the  glittering  main: 

The  very  ocean  has  its  hour  of  rest, 

That  comes  not  to  the  human  mourner's  breast. 

Remote  from  man,  and  storms  of  mortal  care, 

A  heavenly  silence  did  the  waves  invest; 

I  looked  and  looked  along  the  silent  air, 

Until  it  seemed  to  bring  a  joy  to  my  despair. 

Ah !  how  unlike  those  late  terrific  sleeps ! 
And  groans,  that  rage  of  racking  famine  spoke, 
Where  looks  inhuman  dwelt  on  festering  heaps! 
The  breathing  pestilence  that  rose  like  smoke ! 
The  shriek  that  from  the  distant  battle  broke ! 


€3 


The  mine's  dire  earthquake,  and  the  pallid  host 
Driven  by  the  bombs  incessant  thunder-stroke 
To  loathsome  vaults,  where  heart-sick  anguish 

toss'd, 
Hope  died,  and  fear  itself  in  agony  was  lost ! 

Yet  does  that  burst  of  woe  congeal  my  frame, 
When  the  dark  streets  appeared  to  heave  and 

gape, 
While  like  a  sea  the  storming  army  came, 
And  Fire  from  Hell  reared  his  gigantic  shape, 
And  Murder,  by  the  ghastly  gleam,  and  Rape 
Seized  their  joint  prey,  the  mother  and  the 

child ! 
But  from  these  crazing  thoughts  my  brain, 

escape ! 
-—For  weeks  the  balmy  air  breathed  soft  and 

mild, 
And  on  the  gliding  vessel  Heaven  and  Ocean. 

smiled. 

Some  mighty  gulph  of  separation  past, 
I  seemed  transported  to  another  world:— 
A  thought  resigned  with  pain,  when  from  the 

mast 
The  impatient  mariner  the  sail  unfurPd, 
And  whistling,  called  the  wind  that  hardly 

curled 


69 


The  silent  sea.     From  the  sweet  thoughts  of 

home, 
And  from  all  hope  I  was  for  ever  hurled. 
For  me ! — farthest  from  earthly  port  to  roam 
Was  best,  could  I  but  shun  the  spot  where 

Man  might  come* 

And  oft,  robbed  of  my  perfect  mind,  I  thought 
At  last  my  feet  a  resting-place  had  found: 
Here  will  I  weep  in  peace  (so  fancy  wrought) 
Roaming  the  illimitable  waters  round; 
Here  watch,  of  every  human  friend  disowned, 
All  day,  my  ready  tomb  the  ocean-flood — 
To  break  my  dream  the  vessel  reached  its  bound: 
And  homeless  near  a  thousand  homes  I  stood  ; 
And-near  a  thousand  tables  pined,  and  wanted 
food. 


By  grief  enfeebled  was  I  turned  adrift, 
Helpless  as  sailor  cast  on  desart  rock; 
Nor  morsel  to  my  mouth  that  day  did  lift,, 
Nor  dared  my  hand  at  any  door  to  knock. 
I  lay,  where,  with  his  drowsy  mates,  the  cock 
From  the  cross  timber  of  an  out-house  hung ; 
How  dismal  tolled,  that  night,  the  city  clock! 
At  morn  my  sick  heart  hunger  scarcely  stung, 
Nor  to  the  beggar's  language  could  I  frame 
my  tongue. 


10 


So  passed  another  day,  and  so  the  third: 
Then  did  I  try,  in  vain,  the  crowd's  resort  i 
In  deep  despair,  by  frightful  wishes  stirr'd, 
Near  the  sea-side  I  reach'd  a  ruined  fort: 
There,  pains  which  nature  could  no  more  support 
With  blindness  linked,  did  on  my  vitals  fall  j 
Dizzy  my  brain,  with  interruption  short 
Of  hideous  sense,  I  sunk,  nor  step  could  crawl,. 
And  thence  wa£  borne  away  to  neighbouring 
hospital* 

Recovery  came  with  food :  but  still,  my  brain 
Was  weak,  nor  of  the  past  had  memory. 
I  heard  my  neighbours,  in  their  beds  complain 
Of  many  things  which  never  troubled  me; 
Of  feet  still  bustling  round  with  busy  glee, 
Of  looks  where  common  kindness  had  no  part, 
Of  service  done  with  careless  cruelty, 
Fretting  the  fever  round  the  languid  heart, 
And  groans,  which,  as  they  said,  would  make 
a  dead  man  start  I 

These  things  just  served  to  stir  the  torpid  sense,. 
Nor  pain  nor  pity  in  my  bosom  raised ! 
Memory,  though  slow,  returned  with  strength ; 

and  thence 
Dismissed,  again  in  open  day  I  gazed 
At  houses,  men,  and  common  light,  amazed ; 
The  lanes  I  sought,  and  as  the  sun  retired, 
Came,  where,  beneath  the  trees  a  faggot  blazed; 


71 


The  wild  brood  saw  me  weep,  ray  fate  enquired, 
And  gave  me  food,  and  rest,  more  welcome, 
more  desired. 


My  heart  is  touched  to  think  that  men  like  these. 
The  rude  earth's  tenants,  were  my  first  relief. 
How  kindly  did  they  paint  their  vagrant  ease ! 
And  their  long  holiday  that  feared  not  grief; 
For  all  belonged  to  all,  and  each  was  chief. 
No  plough  their  sinews  strained;  on  grating 

road 
No  wain  they  drove,  and  yet,  the  yellow  sheaf 
In  every  vale  for  their  delight  was  stowed ; 
For  them,  in  nature's  meads,  the  milky  udder 

flowed. 


Semblance,  with  straw  and  pannierM  ass,  they 

made 
Of  potters  wandering  on  from  door  to  door:    , 
But  life  of  happier  sort  to  me  pourtrayed, 
And  other  joys,  my  fancy  to  allure; 
The  bag-pipe  dinning  on  the  midnight  moor 
In  barn  uplighted,  and  companions  boon, 
Well  met  from  far,  with  revelry  secure, 
In  depth  of  forest  glade,  when  jocund  June 
Rolled  fast  along  the  sky  his  warm  and  genial 

moon. 


72 


But  ill  it  suited  me,  in  journey  dark 

O'er  moor  and  mountain,  midnight  theft  to 

hatch ; 
To  charm  the  surly  house-dog's  faithful  bark, 
Or  hang  on  tiptoe  at  the  lifted  latch ; 
The  gloomy  lantern,  and  the  dim  blue  match, 
The  black  disguise,  the  warning  whistle  shrill, 
And  ear  still  busy  on  its  nightly  watch, 
Were  not  for  me,  brought  up  in  nothing  ill ; 
Besides,  on  griefs  so  fresh  my  thoughts  were 

brooding  still. 

What  could  I  do,  unaided  and  unblest  ? 
Poor  Father !  gone  was  every  friend  of  thine : 
And  kindred  of  dead  husband  are  at  best 
Small  help,  and,  after  marriage  such  as  mine, 
With  little  kindness  would  to  me  incline. 
Ill  was  I  then  for  toil  or  service  fit: 
With  tears  whose  course  no  effort  could  confine, 
By  high- way  side,  forgetful,  would  I  sit 
Whole  hours,  my  idle  arms  in  moping  sorrow 
knit. 

I  lived  upon  the  mercy  of  the  fields, 

And  oft  of  cruelty  the  sky  accused ; 

On  hazard,  or  what  general  bounty  yields, 

Now  coldly  given,  now  utteny  refused. 

The  fields  1  for  my  bed  have  often  used : 

But,  what  afflicts  my  peace  with  keenest  ruth 

Is,  that  I  have  my  inner  self  abused, 


13 


Foregone  the  home  delight  of  constant  truth, 
And  clear  and  open  soul,  so  prized  in  fearless 
youth. 


Three  years  a  wanderer,  often  have  I  view'd, 
In  tears,  the  sun  towards  that  country  tend 
Where  my  poor  heart  lost  all  its  fortitude : 
And  now  across  this  moor  my  steps  I  bend — - 
Oh !   tell  me  whither — for  no  earthly  friend 

Have  I. She  ceased,   and  weeping  turn'd 

away; 
As  if  because  her  tale  was  at  an  end 
She  wept ; — because  she  had  no  more  to  say 
Of  that  perpetual  weight  which  on  her  spi- 
rits lay. 


Vol.  I. 


75 


GOODY  BLAKE,   and  HARRY  GILL, 

A  True  Story. 

OH!   what's  the  matter?  what's  the  matter? 

What  is't  that  ails  young  Harry  Gill  ? 

That  evermore  his  teeth  they  chatter, 

Chatter,  chatter,  chatter  still. 

Of  waiseoats  Harry  has  no  lack, 

Good  duffle  grey,  and  flannel  line ; 

He  has  a  blanket  on  his  back, 

And  coats  enough  to  smother  nine. 

In  March,  December,  and  in  July, 

'Tis  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill ; 

The  neighbours  tell,  and  tell  you  truly, 

His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still. 

At  night,  at  morning,  and  at  noon, 

'Tis  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill ; 

Beneath  the  sun,  beneath  the  moon, 

His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still. 

Young  Harry  was  a  lusty  drover, 
And  who  so  stout  of  limb  as  he  ? 
His  cheeks  were  red  as  ruddy  clover, 
His  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  three. 


76 


Auld  Goody  Blake  was  old  and  poor, 
III  fed  she  was,  and  thinly  clad; 
And  any  man  who  pass'd  her  door, 
Might  see  how  poor  a  hut  she  had. 
All  day  she  spun  in  her  poor  dwelling, 
And  then  her  three  hours  work  at  night ! 
Alas!   'twas  hardly  worth  the  telling, 
It  would  not  pay  for  candle-light, 
— This  woman  dwelt  in  Dorsetshire, 
Her  hut  was  on  a  cold  hill-side, 
And  in  that  country  coals  are  dear, 
For  they  come  far  by  wind  and  tide. 

By  the  same  fire  to  boil  their  pottage, 
Two  poor  old  dames,  as  I  have  known* 
Will  often  live  in  one  small  cottage, 
But  she,  poor  woman,  dwelt  alone. 
'Twas  well  enough  when  summer  came, 
The  long,  warm,  lightsome  summer^day ; 
Then  at  her  door  the  canty  dame 
Would  sit,  as  any  linnet  gay. 
But  when  the  ice  our  streams  did  fetter, 
Oh !  then  how  her  old  bones  would  shake  f 
You  would  have  said,  if  you  had  met  her* 
'Twas  a  hard  time  for  Goody  Blake. 
Her  evenings  then  were  dull  and  dead; 
Sad  case  it  was,  as  you  may  think, 
For  very  cold  to  go  to  bed, 
And  then  for  cold  not  sleep  a  wink. 


17 


Oh  joy  for  her !  when  e'er  in  winter 
The  winds  at  night  had  made  a  rout, 
And  scatter'd  many  a  lusty  splinter, 
And  many  a  rotten  bough  about. 
Yet  never  had  she,  well  or  sick, 
As  every  man  who  knew  her  says, 
A  pile  before-hand,  wood  or  stick, 
Enough  to  warm  her  for  three  days. 
Now,  when  the  frost  was  past  enduring, 
And  made  her  poor  old  bones  to  ache, 
Could  any  thing  be  more  alluring, 
Than  an  old  hedge  to  Goody  Blake  ? 
And  now  and  then,  it  must  be  said, 
When  her  old  bones  were  cold  and  chill, 
She  left  her  fire,  or  left  her  bed, 
To  seek  the  hedge  of  Harry  Gill- 

Now  Harry  he  had  long  suspected 
This  trespass  of  old  Goody  Blake, 
And  vow'd  that  she  should  be  detected, 
And  he  on  her  would  vengeance  take. 
And  oft  from  his  warm  fire  he'd  go, 
And  to  the  fields  his  road  would  take, 
And  there,  at  night,  in  frost  and  snow, 
He  watch'd  to  seize  old  Goody  Blake, 

Vol.  I.  G  2 


is. 


And  once,  behind  a  rick  of  barley, 
Thus  looking  out  did  Harry  stand, 
The  moon  was  full  and  shining  clearly, 
And  crisp  with  frost  the  stubble  land. 
—-He  hears  a  noise — he's  all  awake — 
Again? — on  tip-toe  down  the  hill 
He  softly  creeps — 'Tis  Goody  Blake, 
She's  at  the  hedge  of  Harry  Gill. 

Right  glad  was  he  when  he  beheld  her: 
Stick  after  stick  did  Goody  pull, 
He  stood~behind  a  bush  of  elder, 
Till  she  had  filled  her  apron  full. 
When  with  her  load  she  turned  about, 
The  bye  road  back  again  to  take, 
He  started  forward  with  a  shout, 
And  sprang  upon  poor  Goody  Blake  : 
And  fiercely  by  the  arms  he  took  her, 
And  by  the  arm  he  held  her  fast, 
And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  shook  her, 
And  cried,  "  I've  caught  you  then  at  last! 
Then  Goody,  who  had  nothing  said, 
Her  bundle  from  her  lap  let  fall; 
And  kneeling  on  the  sticks,  she  pray'd 
To  God  that  is  the  judge  of  all. 

She  pray'd,  her  withered  hand  uprearing, 
While  Harry  held  her  by  the  arm — 
"  God !  who  art  never  out  of  hearing, 
**  O  may  he  never  more  be  warm !■" 


19 


The  cold,  cold  moon  above  her  head, 

Thus  on  her  knees  did  Goody  pray, 

Young  Harry  heard  what  she  had  said* 

And  icy-cold  he  turned  away. 

He  went  complaining  all  the  morrow 

That  he  was  cold  and  very  chill : 

His  face  was  gloom,  his  heart  was  sorrow, 

Alas !  that  day  for  Harry  Gill  I 

That  day  he  wore  a  riding-coat* 

But  not  a  whit  the  warmer  he : 

Another  was  on  Thursday  brought, 

And  ere  the  Sabbath  he  had  three. 

'Twas  all  in  vain,  a  useless  matter, 
And  blankets  were  about  him  pinn'd; 
Yet  still  his  jaws  and  teeth  they  clatter, 
Like  a  loose  casement  in  the  wind. 
And  Harry's  flesh  it  fell  away  j 
And  all  who  see  him  say  'tis  plain, 
That,  live  as  long  as  live  he  may, 
He  never  will  he  warm  again. 
No  word  to  any  man  he  utters, 
A-bed  or  up.,  to  young  or  old ; 
But  ever  to  himself  he  mutters, 
"  Poor  Harry  Gill  is  very  cold.'* 
A-bed  or  up,  by  night  or  day ; 
His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still : 
Now  think,  ye  farmers  all,  I  pray, 
Of  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill. 


80 


LINES 


Written  at  a  small  distance  from  my  house 

and  sent  by  my  little  boy  to  the 

person  to  whom  they  are 

addressed. 


IT  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March: 
Each  minute  sweeter  than  before, 
The  red-breast  sings  from  the  tall  larch 
That  stands  beside  our  door. 

There  is  a  blessing  in  the  air, 
Which  seems  a  sense  of  jov  to  yield 
To  the  bare  trees,  and  mountains  bare, 
And  grass  in  the  g^een  field* 

My  Sister !   'tis  a  wish  of  mine, 
Now  that  our  morning  meal  is  done, 
Make  haste,  your  morning  task  resign; 
Come  forth  and  feel  the  sun. 

Edward  will  come  with  you,  and  pray, 
Put  on  with  speed  your  woodland  dress,, 
And  bring  no  book,  for  this  one  day 
We'll  give  to  idleness. 


81 


No  joyless  forms  shall  regulate 
Our  living  Kalendar: 
We  from  to  day,  my  friend,  will  date 
The  opening  of  the  year. 

Love,  now  and  universal  birth, 
From  heart  to  heart  is  stealing, 
From  earth  to  man,  from  man  to  earth, 
— It  is  the  hour  of  feeling. 

One  moment  now  may  give  us  more 
Than  fifty  years  of  reason ; 
Our  minds  shall  drink  at  every  pore 
The  spirit  of  the  season* 

Some  silent  laws  our  hearts  may  make, 
Which  they  shall  long  obey ; 
We  for  the  year  to  come  may  take 
Our  temper  from  to-day. 

And  from  the  blessed  Power  that  rolls 
About,  below,  above; 
We'll  frame  the  measure  of  our  souls, 
They  shall  be  tuned  to  Love. 

Then  come,  my  sister !  come,  I  pray, 
With  speed  put  on  your  woodland  dress,. 
And  bring  no  book ;  for  this  one  day 
We'll  give  to  idleness. 


n 


82 


SIMON  LEE, 
THE  OLD   fiUNTSMJN, 

WITH   AN   INCIDENT    IN   WHICH    HE    WAS 
CONCERNED. 


IN  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 

Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor-hall, 

An  old  man  dwells,  a  little  man, 

I've  heard  he  once  was  tall. 

Of  years  he  has  upon  his  back, 

No  doubt,  a  burthen  weighty ; 

He  says  he  is  three  score  and  ten,; 

But  others  say  he's  eighty. 

A  long  blue  livery-coat  has  he* 

That's  feir  behind,  and  fair  before; 

Yet,  meet  him  where  you  will,  you  see 

At  once  that  he  is  poor. 

Full  five  and  twenty  years  he  lived 

A  running  huntsman  merry; 

And,  though  he  has  but  one  eye  left, 

His  cheek  is  like  a  cherry. 


83 

m 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound, 

And  no  man  was  so  full  of  glee ; 

To  say  the  least,  four  counties  round 

Had  heard  of  Simon  Lee; 

His  master's  dead,  and  no  one  now 

Dwells  in  the  hall  of  Ivor; 

Men,  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead; 

He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

His  hunting  feats  have  him  bereft 

Of  his  right  eye,  as  you  may  see : 

And  then,  what  limbs  those  feats  have  left 

To  poor  old  Simon  Lee ! 

He  has  no  son,  he  has  no  child,   • 

His  wife  an  aged  woman, 

Lives  with  him  near  the  water-fall, 

Upon  the  village  common, 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick, 

His  little  body's  half  awry, 

His  ancles  they  are  swoln  and  thick; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 

When  he  was  young  he  little  knew 

Of  husbandry  or  tillage ; 

And  now  he's  forced  to  work,  though  weak, 

— The  weakest  in  the  village. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 

Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind; 

And  often,  ere  the  race  was  done, 

He  reeled  and  was  stone-blind. 


84 


And  still  there's  something  in  die  world 
At  which  his  heart  rejoices ; 
For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out, 
He  dearly  loves  their  voices ! 

Old  Ruth  works  out  of  doors  with  him, 
And  does  what  Simon  cannot  do ; 
For  she,  not  over  stout  of  limb, 
,  Is  stouter  of  the  two. 
And  though  you. with  your  utmost  skill 
From  labour  could  not  wean  them, 
Alas  !  'tis  very  little,  all 
Which  they  can  do  between  them. 
Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay, 
Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 
A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 
Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 
This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 
Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger; 
But  what  avails  the  land  to  them, 
Which  they  can  till  no  longer  ? 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store, 
As  he  to  you  will  tell, 
For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 
His  poor  old  ancles  swell. 


85 


My  gentle  reader,  I  perceive 

How  patiently  you've  waited, 

And  I'm  afraid  that  you  expect 

Some  tale  will  be  related. 

O  reader !  had  you  in  your  mind 

Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

0  gentle  reader  1  you  would  find 
A  tale  in  every  thing. 

What  more  I  have  to  say  is  short, 

1  hope  you'll  kindly  take  it; 

It  is  no  tale,  but  should  you  think, 
Perhaps  a  tale  you'll  make  it. 

One  summer-day  I  chanced  to  see 
This  old  man  doing  all  he  could 
About  the  root  of  an  old  tree, 
A  stump  of  rotten  wood. 
The  mattock  totter'd  in  his  hand  ; 
So  vain  was  his  endeavour 
That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree 
He  might  have  work'd  for  ever. 
"  You're  overtask'd,  good  Simon  Lee, 
Give  me  your  tool?"  to  him  I  said; 
And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 
Received  my  proffered  aid. 
I  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow 
The  tangled  root  I  sever'd, 
At  which  the  poor  old  man  so  long 
And  vainly  had  endeavour'd. 
Vol.  I.  H 


86 


The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought, 
And  thanks  and  praises  seemed  to  run 
So  fast  out  of  his  .heart,  I  thought 
They  never  would  have  done. 
— I've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning: 
Alas !  the  gratitude  of  men 
Has  oftner  left  me  mourning. 


8~ 


ANECDOTE  FOR  FATHERS, 

SHEWING    HOW 

THE  ART  OF  LYING 

MAY    BE    TAUGHT. 


I  HAVE  a  boy  of  five  years  old, 
His  face  is  fair  and  fresh  to  see ; 
His  limbs  are  cast  in  beauty's  mould, 
And  dearlv  he  loves  me. 

One  morn  we  stroll'd  on  our  drv  walk, 
Our  quiet  house  all  full  ill  view, 
And  held  such  intermitted  talk 
As  we  are  wont  to  do. 

My  thoughts  on  former  pleasures  ran ; 
I  thought  of  Kilve's  delightful  shore, 
My  pleasant  home,  when  spring  began, 
"A  long  long  year  before. 


88 


A  day  it  was  when  I  could  bear 
To  think,  and  think,  and  think  again ; 
With  so  much  happiness  to  spare, 
I  could  not  feel  a  pain. 

My  boy  was  by  my  side,  so  slim 
And  graceful  in  his  rustic  dress ! 
And  oftentimes  I  talked  to  him, 
In  very  idleness. 

The  young  lambs  ran  a  pretty  race; 
The  morning  sun  shone  bright  and  warm , 
"  Kilve,  said  I,  was  a  pleasant  place, 
"  And  so  is  Liswyn  farm* 

"  My  little  boy,  which  like  you  more, 
(I  said  and  took  him  by  the  arm) — 
"  Our  home  by  Kilve's  delightful  shore, 
"  Or  here  at  Liswyn  farm  ? 

"  And  tell  me,  had  you  rather  be, 

(I  said  and  held  him  by  the  arm) 

**  At  Kilve's  smooth  shore  by  the  green  sea, 

"  Or  here  at  Liswyn  farm?" 

In  careless  mood  he  looked  at  me, 
While  still  I  held  him  by  the  arm, 
And  said,  <  At  Kilve  Fd  rather  be 
«  Than  here  at  Liswyn  farm.' 


89 


"  Now,  little  Edward,  say  why  so? 
"  My  little  Edward,  tell  me  why?" 
'  I  cannot  tell,  X  do  not  know.' 
"  Whv  this  is  strange/*  said  I : 

"  For  here  are  woods  and  green-hills  warm; 
"  There  surely  must  some  reason  be 
"  Why  you  would  change  sweet  Liswyn  farm 
"  For  Kiive  by  the  green  sea." 

At  this,  my  boy,  so  fair  and  slim, 
Hung  down  his  head,  nor  made  reply ; 
And  five  times  did  I  say  to  him, 
"  Why?  Edward,  tell  me  why?" 

His  head  he  raised — there  was  in  sight, 
It  caught  bis  eyer  he  saw  it  plain — 
Upon  the  house-top,  glittering  bright, 
A  broad  and  gilded  vane. 

Then  did  the  boy  his  tongue  unlock, 
And  thus  to  me  he  made  reply ; 
1  At  Kilve  there  was  no  weather-cock, 
*  And  that's  the  reason  why.* 

Oh  dearest,  dearest  boy !  my  heart 
For  better  lore  would  seldom  yearn, 
Could  I  but  teach  the  hundredth  part 
Of  what  from  thee  I  learn. 

Vol.  I.  H  2 


90 


WE  ARE  SEVEN. 


A  simple  child,  dear  brother  Jim, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl, 
She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said ; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  cluster'd  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 
And  she  was  wildly  clad ; 
Her  eyes  were  fair  and  very  fair, 
— Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

*  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

'  How  many  may  you  be?' 

"  How  many?  seven  in  all," — she  said, 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

e  And  where  are  they,  I  prav  you  tell  V 
She  answered,  "  Seven  are  we, 
"  And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 
li  And  two  are  pone  to  sea: — 


91 


"  Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 
"  My  sister  and  my  brother, 
"  And  in  the  church-yard  cottage,  I 
"  Dwell  near  them  w^imy  motheijP- 

*  You  say  that  twO  at  Conway  dwell, 

*  And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 

'  Yet  you  are  seven;  I  pray  you  tell 

*  Sweet  Maid,  how  this  may  be?' 

Then  did  the  little  Maid  reply, 
"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we; 
"  Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 
"  Beneath  the  church-yard  tree." 

'  You  run  about,  my  little  maid, 
'  Your  limbs  they  are  alive ; 
'  If  two  are  in  the  church-yard  laid, 
'  Then  ye  are  only  five.' 

I 
"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen, 
(The  little  Maid  replied) 
"  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 
"  And  they  are  side  by  side  : 

"  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 
"  My  'kerchief  there  I  hem, 
"  And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit— « 
"  I  sit  and  sing  to  them. 


' 


92 

"  And  often  after  sunset,  Sir, 
"  When  it  is  light  and  fair, 


"  I  take  my  little  porringer* 
"  And  «at  my  suppej^;h( 


iere. 


"  The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane; 
"  In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
"  Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain,, 
"  And  then  she  went  away. 

"  So  in  the  church- yard  she  was  laid,- 
w  And  all  the  summer  dry, 
*'  Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 
"  My  brother  John  and  I. 

"  And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

"  And  I  could  run  and  slide, 

"  My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

"  And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

ti  How  many  are  you  then,*  said  I,  • 

*  If  they  two  are  in  Heaven?'  ,v 

The  little  Maiden  did  reply, 
"  O  Master!  we  are  seven." 

44  But  they  are  dead;  those  two  are  dead  ? 
44  Their  spirits  are  in  heaven !" 
'Twas  throwing  words  away;  for  still 
The  little  Maid  would  have  her  will, 
And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven!" 


93 
LlflhES 

WRITTEN   IN   EARLY   SPRING. 


I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes, 
While  in  a  grove  I  sate  reclin'd, 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran ; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  Man  has  made  of  Man. 

Through  primrose- tufts,  in  that  sweet  bower 
The  periwinkle  trail'd  its  wreaths ; 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopp'd  and  play'd : 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure, 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made 
It  seem'd  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 


94 


The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan,. 
To  catch  the  breezy  air, 
And  I  nmst  think,  do  all  I  can, 
That  thffe  was  pleas^Jfc  there. 

If  I  these  thoughts  may  not  prevent, 
If  such  be  of  my  creed  the  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  Man  has  made  of  Man  ? 


95 


THE 


THORN, 


I. 
THERE  is  a  Thorn;  it  looks  so  old, 
In  truth  you'd  find  it  hard  to  say, 
How  it  could  ever  have  been  young, 
It  looks  so  old  and  grey. 
Not  higher  than  a  two-years'  child, 
It  stands  erect  this  aged  Thorn ; 
No  leaves  it  has,  no  thorny  points ; 
It  is  a  mass  of  knotted  joints, 
A  wretched  thing  forlorn. 
It  stands  erect,  and  like  a  stone 
With  lichens  it  is  overgrown. 

II. 

Like  rock  or  stone,  it  is  o'ergrown 
With  lichens  to  the  very  top, 
And  hung  with  heavy  tufts  of  moss, 
A  melancholy  crop : 


78 


Up  from  the  earth  these  mosses  creep, 

And  this  poor  Thorn  they  clasp  it  round 

So  close,  you'd  say  that  they  were  bent 

With  plain  and  manifest  intent, 

To  drag  it  to  the  ground  j 

And  all  had  joined  in  one  endeavour 

To  bury  this  poor  Thorn  for  ever. 


-        111. 

High  on  a  mountain's  highest  ridge, 

Where  oft  the  stormy  winter  gale 

Cuts  like  a  scythe,  while  through  the  clouds 

It  sweeps  from  vale  to  vale ; 

Not  five  yards  from  the  mountain  path 

This  Thorn  you  on  your  left  espy ; 

And  to  the  left,  three  yards  beyond, 

You  see  a  little  muddy  pond 

Of  water,  never  dry; 

I've  measur'd  it  from  side  to  side: 

'Tis  three  feet  long,  and  two  feet  wide. 


IV. 

And  close  beside  this  aged  Thorn, 
There  is  a  fresh  and  lovely  sight, 
A  beauteous  heap,  a  hill  of  moss, 
Just  half  a  foot  in  height. 


97 


All  lovely -colours  there  you  see, 
All  colours  that  were  ever  seen ; 
And  mossy  net-work  too  is  there, 
As  if  by  hand  of  lady  fair 
The  work  had  woven  been, 
And  cups,  the  darlings  of  the  eye, 
So  deep  is  their  vermillion  dye. 


Ah  me  !  what  lovely  tints  are  there 

Of  olive-green  and  scarlet  bright ! 

In  spikes,  in  branches,  and  in  stars, 

Green,  red,  and  pearly  white. 

This  heap  of  earth  o'ergrown  with  moss, 

Which  close  beside  the  Thorn  you  see, 

So  fresh  in  all  its  beauteous  dyes, 

Is  like  an  infant's  grave  in  size, 

As  like  as  like  can  be: 

But  never,  never  any  where, 

An  infants  grave  was  half  so  fair. 

VI. 

Now  would  you  see  this  aged  Thorn, 
This  pond  and  beauteous  hill  of  moss, 
You  must  take  care  and  chuse  your  time 
The  mountain  when  to  cross. 

Vol.  h  I 


98 


For  oft  there  sits,  between  the  heap 
That's  like  an  infant's  grave  in  size, 
And  that  same  pond  of  which  I  spoke, 
A  woman  in  a  scarlet  cloak, 
And  to  herself  she  cries, 

"  Oh  misery !  oh  misery  ! 

*'  Oh  woe  is  me!  oh  misery !" 

VII. 

At  all  times  of  the  day  and  night 
This  wrenched  woman  thither  goes, 
And  she  is  known  to  every  star, 
And  every  wind  that  blows; 
And  there  beside  the  Thorn  she  sits 
When  the  bine  day-light's  in  the  skies, 
And  when  the  whirlwind's  on  the  hill, 
Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still, 
And  to  herself  she  cries, 

*'  Oh  misery !  oh  misery  ! 

"  Oh  woe  is  me !   oh  misery !" 

VIII. 

**  Now  wherefore  thus,  by  day  and  night, 
"  In  rain,  in  tempest,  and  in  snow, 
"  Thus  to  the  dreary  mountain-top 
**  Does  this  poor  woman  go  ? 


99 


"  And  why  sjts  she,  beside  the  Thorn 

"  When  the  blue  day-light's  in  the  sky, 

"  Or  when  the  whirlwind's  on  the  hill, 

"  Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still, 

"  And  wherefore  does  she  cry  ? — 

"  Oh  wherefore  ?  wherefore  ?  tell  me  why 

§j  Does  she  repeat  that  doleful  cry?" 


I  cannot  tell ;  I  wish  I  could ; 

For  the  true  reason  no  one  knows, 

But  if  you'd  gladly  view  the  spot, 

The  spot  to  which  she  goes ; 

The  heap  that's  like  an  infant's  grave, 

The  pond — and  Thorn — so  old  and  grey, 

Pass  by  her  door — tis  seldom  shut — < 

And  if  you  see  her  in  her  hut, 

Then  to  the  spot  away ! — 

I  never  heard  of  such  as  dare 

Approach  the  spot  when  she  is  there. 


"  But  wherefore  to  the  mountain- top 
Can  this  unhappy  woman  go, 
Whatever  star  is  in  the  skies, 
Whatever  wind  may  blow?" 


■:i 


100 

Nay  rack  your  brain — 'tis  all  in  vain  ;■ 
I'll  tell  you  every  thing  I  know; 
But  to  the  Thorn,  and  to  the  pond 
Which  is  a  little  step  beyond* 
1  wish  that  you  would  go : 
Perhaps  when  you  are  at  the  place 
You  something  of  her  tale  may  trace. 

xt 

I'll  give  you  the  best  help  I  can: 

Before  you  up  the  mountain  go, 

Up  to  the  dreary  mountain-top, 

I'll  tell  you  all  I  know. 

'Tis  now  some  two  and  twenty  years, 

Since  she  (her  name  is  Martha- Ray) 

Gave  with  a  maiden's  true  good  will 

Her  company  to  Stephen  Hill; 

And  she  was  blithe  and  gay, 

And  she  was  happy,  happy  still 

Whene'er  she  thought  of  Stephen  Hilfc 


And  they  had  fix'd  the  wedding-day, 
The  morning  that  must  wed  them  both  > 
But  Stephen  to  another  maid 
Had  sworn  another  oath ; 


101 

And  with  this  other  maid  to  church 

Unthinking  Stephen  went — 

Poor  Martha !  on  that  woeful  day 

A  cruel,  cruel  fire,  they  say, 

Into  her  bones  was  sent : 

It  dried  her  body  like  a  cinder, 

And  almost  turn'd  her  brain  to  tinder. 


XIII. 

They  say,  full  six  months  after  this, 

While  yet  the  summer-leaves  were  green, 

She  to  the  mountain-top  would  go, 

And  there  was  often  seen. 

'Tis  said,  a  child  was  in  her  womb, 

As  now  to  any  eye  was  plain ; 

She  was  with  child,  and  she  was  mad. 

Yet  often  she  was  sober  sad 

From  her  exceeding  pain. 

Oh  me!  ten  thousand  times  I'd  rather 

That  he  had  died,   that  cruel  father ! 

XIV. 

Sad  case  for  such  a  brain  to  hold 
Communion  with  a  stirring  child ! 
Sad  case,  as  you  may  think,  for  one 
Who  had  a  brain  so  wild ! 

Vol.  I.  I  2 


102 

JLast  Christmas  when  we  talked  of  this, 
Old  Farmer  Simpson  did  maintain, 
That  in  her  womb  the  infant  wrought 
About  its  mother's  heart,  and  brought 
Her  senses  back  again: 
And  when  at  last  her  time  drew  near, 
Her  looks  were  calm,  her  senses  clear. 


XV. 

No  more  I  know,  1  wish  I  did, 
And  I  would  tell  it  all  to  you; 
For  what  became  of  this  poor  child 
There's  none  that  ever  knew  : 
And  if  a  child  was  born  or  no, 
There's  no  one  that  could  ever  tell 
And  if  'twas  born  alive  or  dead, 
There's  no  one  knows,  as  I  have  said, 
But  some  remember  well, 
That  Martha  Ray  about  this  time 
AVould  up  the  mountain  often  climb. 


XVI. 

And  all  that  winter,  when  at  night 
The  wind  blew  from  the  mountain-peak, 
'Twas  worth  your  while,  though  in  the  dark, 
The  church-yard  path  to  seek : 


103 

For  many  a  time  and  oft  were  heard 
Cries  coming  from  the  mountain-head,.. 
Some  plainly  living  voices  were, 
And  others,  I've  heard  many  swear, 
Were  voices  of  the  dead:, 
I  cannot  think,  whate'er  they  say, 
They  had  to  do  with  Martha  Ray., 

xvir. 

But  that  she  goes  to  this  old  Thorn, 

The  Thorn  which  I've  describ'd  to  you, 

And  there  sits  in  a  scarlet  cloak ,.. 

I  will  be  sworn  is  true. 

For  one  day  with  my  telescope, 

To  view  the  ocean  wide  and  bright, 

When  to  this  country  first  I  came, 

Ere  I  had  heard  of  Martha's  name, 

I  climbed  the  mountains'  height : 

A  storm  came  on,  and  I  could  see 

No  object  higher  than  my  knee. 

XVIII. 

'Twas  mist  and  rain,  and  storm  and  rain, 
No  screen,  no  fence  could  I  discover, 
And  then  the  wind!  in  faith,  it  waa 
A  wind  full  ten  times  over !. 


104 

I  looked  around,  I  thought  I  saw 

A  jutting  crag,  and  off  I  ran, 

Head-foremost,,  through  the  driving  rain, 

The  shelter  of  the  crag  to  gain^ 

And,  as  I  am  a  man, 

Instead  of  jutting  crag,  I  found 

A  woman  seated  on  the  ground . 


XIX. 

f  did  not  speak — I  saw  her  face — 
Her  face  it  was  enough  for  me; 
I  turned  about  and  heard  her  cry, 

"O  misery !    O  misery !" 
And  there  she  sits,  until. the  moon 
Througk  half  the  clear  blue  sky  will  go, 
And  when  the  little  breezes  make 
The  waters  of  the  pond  to  shake, 
As  all  the  country  know, 
She  shudders  and  you  hear  her  cry, 

"  Oh  misery!  oh  misery! 

0 
XX. 

"  But  what's  the  Thorn?  and  what's  the  pond  ? 
"  And  what's  the  hill  of  moss  to  her? 
"  And  what's  the  creeping  breeze  that  comes 
44  The  little  pond  to  stir?" 


105 

I  cannot  tell;  but  some  will  say- 
She  hanged  her  baby  on:  the  tree, 
Some  say  she  drowned  it  in  the  pond-, 
Which  is  a  Kttle  step  beyond, 
But  all  and  each  agree, 
The  little  babe  was  buried  there, 
Beneath  that  hill  of  moss  so  fain 


XXI. 

I've  heard  the  scarlet  moss  is  red 
With  drops  of  that  poor  infant's  blood ; 
But  kill  a  new-born  infant  thus! 
I  do  not  think  she  could. 
Some  say,  if  to  the  pond  you  go, 
And  fix  on  it  a  steady  view, 
The  shadow  of  a,  babe  you  trace, 
A  baby  and  a  baby's  face, 
And  that  it  looks  at  you; 
Whene'er  you  lodk  on  it,  'tis  plain 
The  baby  looks  at  you  again. 
% 

XXII. 

And  some  had  sworn  an  oath  that  she 
Should  be  to  public  justice  brought ; 
And  for  the  little  infant's  bones 
With  spade9  they  would  have  sought : 


106 

But  then  the  beauteous  hill  of  moss 
Before  their  eyes  began  to  stir ; 
And  for  full  fifty  yards  around ; 
The  grass  it  shook  upon  the  ground 
But  all  do  still  aver 
The  little  babe  is  buried  there, 
Beneath  that  hill  of  moss  so  fair* 


XXIII. 

I  cannot  tell  how  this  may  be,  v 

But  plain  it  is,  the  Thorn  is  bound 

With  heavy  tufts  of  moss,,  that  strive 

To  drag  it  to  the  ground. 

And  this  I  know,  full  many  a  time, 

When  she  was  on  the  mountain  high, 

By  day,  and  in  the  silent  night, 

When  all  the  stars  shone  clear  and  bright, 

That  I  have  heard  her  cry, 

"  Oh  misery !  oh  misery ! 

"  O.  woe  is  me !  oh  misery  I" 


107 


THE 


LAST  OF  THE  FLOCK. 


IN  distant  countries  I  have  been, 
And  yet  I  have  not  often  seen 
A  healthy  man,  a  man  full  grown. 
Weep  in  the  public  roads  alone. 
But  such  a  one,  on  English  ground, 
And  in  the  broad  high-way,  I  met ; 
Along  the  broad  high- way  he  came, 
His  cheeks  with  tears  were  wet. 
Sturdy  he  seemed,  though  he  was  sad, 
And  in  his  arms  a  lamb  he  had : 


He  saw  me,  and  he  turn'd  aside, 
As  if  he  wish 'd  himself  to  hide. 
Then  with  his  coat  he  made  essay 
To  wipe  those  briny  tears  away. 


108 


I  follow'd  him,  and  said,  "  My  friend 

**  What  ails  you?  wherefore  weep  you  so?" 

— Shame  on  me,  Sir !  this  lusty  lamb, 

He  makes  my  tears  to  flow. 

To-day  I  fetched  him  from  the  rock ; 

He  is  the  last  of  all  my  flock : — 

When  I  was  young,  a  single  man, 
And  after  youthful  follies  ran, 
Though  little  given  to  care  and  thought, 
Yet,  so  it  was,  a  ewe  I  bought; 
And  other  sheep  from  her  I  raised, 
As  healthy  sheep  as  you  might  see, 
And  then  I  married,  and  was  rich 
As  I  could  wish  to  be ; 
Of  sheep  I  number'd  a  full  score, 
And  every  year  encreas'd  my  store, 

Year  after  year  my  stock  it  grew, 

And  from  this  one,  this  single  ewe, 

Full  fifty  comely  sheep  I  raised, 

As  sweet  a  flock  as  ever  grazed ! 

Upon  the  mountain  did  they  feed; 

They  throve,  and  we  at  home  did  thrive. 

•—This  lusty  lamb  of  all  my  store 

Is  all  that  is  alive: 

And  now  I  care  not  if  we  die, 

And  perish  all  of  poverty. 


109 

Ten  children,  Sir  I  had  I  to  feed, 

Hard  labour  in  a  time  of  need  1 

My  pride  was  tamed,  and  in  our  grief, 

I  of  the  parish  ask'd  relief. 

They  said  "  I  was  a  wealthy  man  ; 

**  My  sheep  upon  the  mountain  fed, 

4t  And  it  was  fit  that  thence  I  took 

*'  Whereof  to  buy  us  bread: 

"  Do  this  ;  how  can  we  give  to  you, 

"  They  cried,  what  to  the  poor  is  due?" 


I  sold  a  sheep  as  they  had  said, 

And  bought  my  little  children  bread, 

And  they  were  healthy  with  their  food ; 

For  me  it  never  did  me  good. 

A  woeful  time  It  was  for  me, 

To  see  the  end  of  all  my  gains, 

The  pretty  flock  which  I  had  reared 

With  all  my  care  and  pains  ; — 

To  see  it  melt  like  snow  away  ! 

For  me  it  was  a  woeful  day. 

Another  still !  and  still  another! 

A  little  lamb,  and  then  its  mother  1 

It  was  a  vein  that  never  stoppM, 

Like  blood-drops  from  my  heart  they  dropped 

Vol.  I.  K 


11© 

Till  thirty  were  not  left  alive 

They  dwindled,  dwindled,  one  by  one, 

And  I  may  say  that  many  a  time 

I  wished  they  all  were  gone : 

They  dwindled  one  by  one  away : 

For  me  it  was  a  woeful  day. 

To  wicked  deeds  I  was  inclined, 
And  wicked  fancies  cross'd  my  mind, 
And  every  man  I  chanc'd  so  see, 
I  thought  he  knew  some  ill  of  me. 
No  peace,  no  comfort  could  I  find, 
No  ease,  within  doors  or  without, 
And  crazily,   and  wearily, 
I  went  my  work  about : 
Oft-times  1  thought  to  run  away  ; 
For  me  it  was  a  woeful  day. 

Sir !   'twas  a  precious  flock  to  me, 

As  dear  as  my  own  children  be ; 

For  daily  with  my  growing  store 

I  loved  my  children  more  and  more. 

Alas  !  it  was  an  evil  time  ; 

God  curs'd  me  in  my  sore  distress, 

I  prayed,  yet  every  day  I  thought 

I  loved  my  children  less  j 

And  every  week,  and  every  day, 

My  flock  it  seemed  to  melt  away. 


Ill 

They  dwindled,  Sir,  sad  sight  to  see ! 

From  ten  to  five,   from  five  to  three, 

A  lamb,  a  weather,  and  a  ewe ; 

And  then  at  last,  from  three  to  two  y 

And  of  my  fifty,  yesterday 

I  had  but  only  one, 

And  here  it  lies  upon  my  arm, 

Alas  1  and  I  have  none ; 

To-day  I  fetched  it  from  the  rock; 

It  is  the  last  of  all  my  flock." 


112 


THE   DUNGEON. 


AND  this  place  our  forefathers  made  for  man  ! 
This  is  the  process  of  our  love  and  wisdom, 
To  each  poor  brother  who  offends  against  us — 
Most  innocent,  perhaps, — And  what  if  guilty  ? 
Is  this  the  only  cure  ?  Merciful  God ! 
Each  pore  and  natural  outlet  shrivell'd  uj> 
Ey  ignorance  and  parching  poverty, 
His  energies  roll  back  upon  his  heart, 
And  stagnate  and  corrupt ;    till  changed  to 

poison, 
They  break  out  on  him,  like  a  loathsome 

plague  spot ; 
Then  we  call  in  our  pamperM  mountebanks— 
And  this  is  their  best  cure !  uncomforted 
And  friendless  solitude,  groaning  and  tears, 
And  savage  faces,  at  the  clanking  hour, 
Seen  through  the  steams  and  vapour  of  his 

dungeon, 
Ey  the  lamp's  dismal  twilight !  So  he  lies 
Circled  with  evil,  till  his  very  soul 


113 


Unmoulds  its  essence,  hopelessly  deformed 
By  sights  of  ever  more  deformity ! 
With  other  ministrations  Thou,  O  Nature  ! 
Healest  thy  wandering  and  distempered  child : 
Thou  pourest  on  him  thy  soft  influences, 
Thy  sunny  hues,  fair  forms,  and  breathing 

sweets,' 
Thy  melodies  of  woods,  and  winds  and  wa- 
ters, 
Till  he-  relent,  and  can  no  more  endure 
To  be  a  jarring  and  a  dissonant  thing, 
Amid  this  general  dance  and  minstrelsy ; " 
But,  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way, 
His  angry  spirit  healed  and  harmonized 
By  the  benignant  touch  of  love  and  beauty. 


Vol.  I  K  2 


114 


THE 


MAD  MOTHER. 


HER  eyes  are  wild,  her  head  is  bare, 

The  sun  has  burnt  her  coal-black  hair, 

Her  eye-brows  have  a  rusty  stain, 

And  she  came  far  from  over  the  main* 

She  has  a  baby  on  her  arm, 

Or  else  she  were  alone  ; 

And  underneath  the  hay-stack  warm, 

And  on  the  green  wood  stone, 

She  talked  and  sung  the  woods  among  ; 

And  it  was  ia  the  English  tongue. 

44  Sweet  babe  I  they  say  that  I  am  mad, 
But  nay,  my  heart  is  far  too  glad  ; 
And  I  am  happy  when  I  sing 
Full  many  a  sad  and  doleful  thing  t 
Then,  lovely  baby,  do  not  fear ! 
I  pray  thee  have  no  fear  of  me, 
But,  safe  as  in  a  cradle,  here 
My  lovely  baby !  thou  shalt  be 


115 

To  thee  I  know,  too  much  I  owe ; 
I  cannot  work  thee  any  woe. 

«*  A  fire  was  once  within  my  brain  • 
And  in  my  head  a  dull,  dull  pain; 
And  fiendish  faces  one,  two,  three, 
Hung  at  my  breasts,  and  pulled  at  me : 
But  then  there  came  a  sight  of  joy  ; 
It  came  at  once  to  do  me  good ; 
I  waked,  and  saw  my  little  boy, 
My  little  boy  of  flesh  and  blood  ; 
Oh  joy  for  me  that  sight  to  see! 
For  he  was  here  and  only  he. 

**  Suck  little  babe,  oh  suck  again  I 
It  cools  my  blood,  it  cools  my  brain; 
Thy  lips  I  feel  them,  baby !   they 
Draw  from  my  heart  the  pain  away. 
Oh !  press  me  with  thy  little  hand; 
It  loosens  something  at  my  chest ; 
About  that  tight  and  deadly  band 
1  feel  thy  little  fingers  press'd. 
The  breeze  I  see  is  in  the  tree ; 
It  comes  to  cool  my  babe  and  me. 

*«  Oh  !  love  me,  love  me,  little  boy  ! 
Thou  art  thy  mother's  only  joy  ; 
And  do  not  dread  the  waves  below, 
When  o'er  the  sea-rock's  edge  we  go ; 


H6< 

The  high  crag  cannot  work  me  harm,. 
Nor  leaping  torrents  when  they  howl ; 
The  babe  I  carry  on  my  arm, 
He  saves  for  me  my  precious  soul; 
Then  happy  lie,  for  blest  am  I; 
Without  me  my  sweet  babe  would  die. 

"  Then  do  not  fear,  my  boy!  for  thee 

Bold  as  a  lion  I  will  be ! 

And  I  will  always  be  thy  guide, 

Through  hollow  snows  and  rivers  wide  ; 

I'll  build  an  Indian  bower ;  I  know 

The  leaves  that  make  the  softest  bed ; 

And  if  from  me  thou  wilt  not  go, 

But  still  be  true  'till  I  am  dead, 

My  pretty  thing !  then  thou  shalt  sing, 

As  merry  as  the  birds  in  spring. 

"  Thy  father  cares  not  for  my  breast, 
'Tis  thine,  sweet  baby,  there  to  rest  : 
'Tis  all  thine  own  !  and  if  its  hue 
Be  changed,  that  was  so  fair  to  view, 
'Tis  fair  enough  for  thee,  my  dove ! 
My  beauty,  little  child,  is  flown  ; 
But  thou  wilt  live  with  me  in  love, 
And  what  if  my  poor  cheek  be  brown? 
'Tis  well  for  me  thou  canst  not  see 
How  pale  and  wan  it  else  would  be. 


117 

"  Dread  not  their  taunts,  my  little  life  ! 
I  am  thy  father's  wedded  wife; 
And  underneath  the  spreading  tree 
We  two  will  live  in  honesty. 
If  his  sweet  boy  he  could  forsake, 
With  me  he  never  would  have  stayed: 
From  him  no  harm  my  babe  can  take, 
But  he  poor  man  !  is  wretched  made, 
And  every  day  we  two  will  pray 
For  him  that's  gone  and  far  away. 

"  I'll  teach  my  boy  the  sweetest  things; 

I'll  teach  him  how  the  owlet  sings. 

My  little  babe !   thy  lips  are  still, 

And  thou  hast  almost  suck'd  thy  fill. 

— Where  art  thou  gone  my  own  dear  child  1 

What  wicked  looks  are  those  I  see ! 

Alas !  alas !  that  look  so  wild, 

It  never,  never  came  from  me  : 

If  thou  art  mad,  my  pretty  lad, 

Then  I  must  be  for  ever  sad. 


"  O !  smile  on  me,  my  little  lamb! 
For  I  thy  own  dear  mother  am. 
My  love  for  thee  has  well  been  tried: 
I've  sought  thy  father  far  and  wide. 


IIS 


I  know  the  poisons  of  the  shade, 

I  know  the  earth-nuts  fit  for  food  ; 

Then,  pretty  dear,  be  not  afraid  ; 

We'll  find  thy  father  in  the  wood. 

Now  laugh  and  be  gay,  to  the  woods  away  1 

And  there,  my  babe,  we'll  live  for  aye. 


■ 


119 


THE 

I  DIOT    BO  Y. 


'TIS  eight  o'clock, — a  clear  March  night, 

The  moon  is  up — the  sky  is  blue, 

The  owlet  in  the  moonlight  air, 

He  shouts  from  nobody  knows  where; 

He  lengthens  out  his  lonely  shout, 

Halloo  !  halloo !  a  long  halloo  ! 

— Why  bustle  thus  about  your  door, 
What  means  this  bustle,  Betty  Foy  ? 
Why  are  you  in  this  mighty  fret ? 
And  why  on  horseback  have  you  set 
Him  whom  you  love,  your  Idiot  boy  ? 

beneath  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright, 
till  she  is  tired,  let  Betty  Foy 
With  girt  and  stirrup  fiddle-faddle ; 
'"But  wherefore  set  upon  a  saddle 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  boy? 


120 

There's  scarce  a  soul  that's  out  of  bed  ; 
Good  Betty  !  put  him  down  again ; 
His  lips  with  joy  they  burr  at  you, 
But,  Betty  !  what  has  he  to  do 
With  stirrup,  saddle,  or  with  rein  ? 

The  world  will  say  ^tis  very  idle, 
Bethink  you  of  the  time  of  night ; 
There's  not  a  mother,  no  not  one, 
But  when  she  hears  what  you  have  done, 
Oh !  Betty,  she'll  be  in  a  fright. 

But  Betty's  bent  on  her  intent, 
For  her  good  neighbour,  Susan  Gale, 
Old  Susan,  she  who  dwells  alone, 
Is  sick,  and  makes  a  piteous  moan, 
As  if  her  very  life  would  fail. 

There's  not  a  house  within  a  mile, 
No  hand  to  help  them  in  distress  : 
Old  Susan  lies  a-bed  in  pain, 
And  sorely  puzzled  are  the  twain, 
For  what  she  ails  they  cannot  guess. 

And  Betty '5  husband's  at  the  wood, 
Where  by  the  week  he  doth  abide, 
A  woodman  in  the  distant  vale  ; 
There's  none  to  help  poor  Susan  Gale, 
What  must  be  done  ?  what  will  betide  ? 


121 

And  Betty  from  the  lane  has  fetched 
Her  poney,  that  is  mild  and  good, 
"Whether  he  be  in  joy  or  pain, 
Feeding  at  will  along  the  lane, 
Or  bringing  faggots  from  the  wood. 

And  he  is  all  in  travelling  trim, 
And  by  the  moonlight,  Betty  Foy 
Has  up  upon  the  saddle  set, 
The  like  was  never  heard  of  yet, 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  boy. 

And  he  must  post  without  delay 
Across  the  bridge  that's  in  the  dale, 
And  by  the  church,  and  o'er  the  down, 
To  bring  a  Doctor  from  the  town, 
Or  she  will  die,  old  Susan  Gale  ! 

There  is  no  need  of  boot  or  spur, 
There  is  no  need  of  whip  or  wand. 
For  Johnny  has  his  holly-bough, 
And  with  a  hurly-burly  now 
He  shakes  the  green  bough  in  his  hand. 

And  Betty  o'er  and  o'er  has  told 
The  boy  who  is  her  best  delight, 
Both  what  to  follow,  what  to  shun, 
What  do,  and  what  to  leave  undone, 
How  turn  to  left,  and  how  to  right. 

Vol.  I.  L 


122 

And  Betty's  most  especial  charge 
Was,  "  Johnny !  Johnny !  mind  that  yoa 
"  Come  home  again,  nor  stop  at  all, 
"  Come  home  again,  whate'er  befall 
*6  My  Johnny  do,  I  pray  yon  do?" 

To  this  did  Johnny  answer  make, 
Both  with  his  head,  and  with  his  hand, 
And  proudly  shook  the  bridle  too ; 
And  then !  his  words  were  not  a  few, 
Which  Betty  well  could  understand. 

And  now  that  Johnny  is  just  going, 
Though  Betty's  in  a  mighty  flurry, 
She  gently  pats  the  poney's  side, 
On  which  her  Idiot  boy  must  ride, 
And  seems  no  longer  in  a  hurry. 

But  when  the  poney  moved  his  legs, 
Oh !  then  for  the  poor  Idiot  boy  ! 
For  jov  he  cannot  hold  the  bridle, 
For  joy  his  head  and  heels  are  idle, 
He's  idle  all  for  very  joy, 

And  while  the  poney  moves  his  legs, 
In  Johnny's  left  hand  you  may  see 
The  green  bough  motionless  and  dead  ; 
The  moon  that  shines  above  his  head 
Is  not  more  still  and  mute  than  he. 


123 


His  heart  it  was  so  full  of  glee, 
That  till  full  fifty  yards  were  gone, 
He  quite  forgot  his  holly  whip, 
And  all  his  skill  in  horsemanship, 
Oh  !  happy,  happy,  happy  John  I 

And  Betty's  standing  at  the  door, 
And  Betty's  face  with  joy  o'erflows, 
Proud  of  herself  and  proud  of  him, 
She  sees  him  in  his  travelling  trim, 
How  quietly  her  Johnny  goes. 

The  silence  of  her  Idiot  Boy, 
What  hopes  it  sends  to  Betty's  heart  ! 
He's  at  the  guide-post — he  turns  right,  . 
She  watches  till  he's  out  of  sight, 
And  Betty  will  not  then  depart. 

Burr,  burr, — now  Johnny's  lips  they  burr, 
As  loud  as  any  mill,  or  near  it; 
Meek  as  a  lamb  the  poney  moves, 
And  Johnny  makes  the  noise  he  loves, 
And  Betty  listens,  glad  to  hear  it. 

Away  she  hies  to  Susan  Gale : 

And  Johnny's  in  a  merry  tune, 

The  owlets  hoot,  the  owlets  curr, 

And  Johnny's  lips  they  burr,  burr,  bun> 

And  on  he  goes  beneath  the  moon. 


124 


His  steed  and  he  right  well  agree, 
For  of  this  poney  there's  a  rumour, 
That  should  he  lose  his  eyes  and  ears, 
And  should  he  live  a  thousand  years, 
He  never  will  be  out  of  humour. 

Eut  then  he  is  a  horse  that  thinks ! 
And  when  he  thinks  his  pace  is  slack ; 
Now,  though  he  knows  poor  Johnnv  well, 
Yet  for  his  life  he  cannot  tell 
What  he  has  got  upon  his  back. 

So  through  the  moonlight  lanes  they  go, 
And  far  into  the  moonlight  dale, 
And  by  the  church,  and  o'er  the  down, 
To  bring  a  doctor  from  the  town 
To  comfort  poor  old  Susan  Gale. 

And  Betty,  now  at  Susan's  side, 

Is  in  the  middle  of  her  story, 

"  What  comfort  Johnny  soon  will  bring!" 

With  many  a  most  diverting  thing, 

Of  Johnny's  wit  and  Johnny's  glory ! 

And  Betty's  still  at  Susan's  side: 
By  this  time  she's  not  quite  so  flurried ; 
Demure,  with  porringer  and  plate 
She  sits,  as  if  in  Susan's  fate 
Her  life  and  soul  were  buried. 


125 

But  Betty,  poor  good  woman!  she,. 
You  plainly  in  her  face  may  read  it, 
Could  lend  out  of  that  moment's  store 
Five  years  of  happiness  or  more, 
To  any  that  might  need  it. 

But  yet  I  guess  that  now  and  then 
With  Betty  all  was  not  so  well, 
And  to  the  road  she  turns  her  ears, 
And  thence  full  many  a  sound  she  hears, 
Which  she  to  Susan  will  not  tell. 

Poor  Susan  moans,  poor  Susan  groans, 
"  As  sure  as  there's  a  moon  inheaven,'* 
Cries  Eetty,   "  he'll  be  back  again; 
"  They'll  both  be  here,  'tis  almost  ten, 
'•  They'll  both  be  here  before  eleven." 

Poor  Susan  moans,  poor  Susan  groans, 
The  clock  gives  warning  for  eleven, 
'Tis  on  the  stroke — "  If  Johnny's  near,75 
•  Quoth  Betty  "  he  will  soon  be  here, 
"As  sure  as  there's  a  moon  in  heaven." 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  twelve, 
And  Johnny  is  not  yet  in  sight, 
The  moon's  in  heaven,  as  Betty  sees, 
But  Betty  is  not  quite  at  ease ; 
And  Susan  has  a  dreadful  night. 

Vol.L  L2 


126 

And  Betty,  half  an  hour  ago, 
On  Johnny  vile  reflections  cast ; 
"  A  little  idle  sauntering  thing !" 
With  other  names,  an  endless  string, 
But  now  that  time  is  gone  and  past. 

And  Betty's  drooping  at  the  heart, 
That  happy  time  all  past  and  gone, 
"  How  can  it  be  he  is  so  late? 
"  The  Doctor  he  has  made  him  wait ; 
"  Susan!  they'll  both  be  here  anon  !" 

And  Susan's  growing  worse  and  worse, 
And  Betty's  in  a  sad  quandary ; 
And  then  there's  nobody  to  say 
If  she  must  go,  or  she  must  stay : 
— She's  in  a  sad  quandary. 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  one ; 
But  neither  Doctor  nor  his  guide 
Appear  along  the  moonlight  road, 
There's  neither  horse  nor  man  abroad, 
And  Betty's  still  at  Susan's  side. 

And  Susan  she  begins  to  fear 
Of  sad  mischances  not  a  few, 
That  Johnny  may  perhaps  be  drownM, 
Or  lost  perhaps,  and  never  found ; 
Which  they  must  both  for  ever  rue. 


127 

She  prefaced  half  a  hint  of  this 
With,  \  God  forbid  it  should  be  true !' 
At  the  first  word  that  Susan  said 
Cried  Betty  rising  from  the  bed, 
"  Susan,  I'd  gladly  stay  with  you; — 

"  I  must  be  gone,  I  must  away, 
•'  Consider,  Johnny's  but  half-wise; 
"  Susan,  we  must  take  care  of  him, 
"  If  he  is  hurt  in  life  or  limb"— 
'  Oh  God  forbid!'  poor  Susan  cries. 

"  What  can  I  do?"  says  Betty,  going, 
*'  What  can  I  do  to  ease  your  pain? 
"  Good  Susan  i  tell  me,  and  I'll  stay; 
"  I  fear  you're  in  a  dreadful  way, 
"  But  I  shall  soon  be  back  again !" 

•  Good  Betty  go  !  good  Betty  go ! 
'  There's  nothing  that  can  ease  my  pain.' 
Then  off  she  hies,  but  with  a  prayer 
That  God  poor  Susan's  life  would  spare, 
Till  she  comes  back  again. 

So  through  the  moonlight  lane  she  goes, 
And  far  into  the  moonlight  dale ; 
And  how  she  ran,  and  how  she  walked, 
And  all  that  to  herself  she  talked, 
Would  surely  be  a  tedious  tale. 


12S 


In  high  and  low,  above,  below, 
In  great  and  small,  in  round  and  square,. 
In  tree  and  tower  was  Johnny  seen,   , 
In  bush  and  brake,  in  black  and  green, 
'Twas  "Johnny!  Johnny!"  everywhere. 

She's  past  the  bridge  that's  in  the  dale, 
And  now  the  thought  torments  her  sorer 
Johnny  perhaps  his  horse  forsook, 
To  hunt  the  moon  that's  in  the  brook, 
And  never  will  be  heard  of  more. 

And  now  she's  high  upon,  the  dovwn, 
Alone  amid  a  prospect  wide ; 
There's  neither  Johnny  nor  his  horse, 
Among  the  fern  or  in  the  gorse; 
These's  neither  doctor  nor  his  guide. 

rt  Oh  saints!  what  is  become  of  him?- 

"  Perhaps  he's  climbed  into  an  oak, 

"  Where  he  will  stay  till  he  is  dead; 

"  Or  sadly  he  has  been  misled, 

"  And  join'd  the  wandering  gypsey-folk : " 

u  Or  him  that  wicked  poney's  carried 
"  To  the  dark  cave,  the  goblins'  hall, 
"  Or  in  the  castle  he's  pursuing, 
"  Among  the  ghosts,  his  own  undoing; 
"  Or  playing  with  the  water- fall. 


129 

At  poor  old  Susan  then  she  railed, 
While  to  the  town  she  posts  away; 
"  If  Susan  had  not  been  so  ill, 
"  Alas !  I  should  have  had  him  still, 
"  My  Johnny,  till  my  dying  day" 

Poor  Betty !  in  this  sad  distemper, 
The  Doctor's  self  would  hardly  spare ; 
Unworthy  things  she  talked  and  wild; 
Even  he,  of  cattle  the  most  mild, 
The  poney  had  his  share. 

And  now  she's  got  into  the  town, 
And  to  the  Doctor's  door  she  hies : 
'Tis  silence  all  on  every  side ; 
The  town  so  long,  the  town  so  wide, 
Is  silent  as  the  skies. 

And  now  she's  at  the  Doctor's  door, 
She  lifts  the  knocker,  rap,  rap,  rap  ! 
The  Doctor  at  the  casement  shews, 
His  glimmering  eyes  that  peep  and  doze ; 
And  one  hand  rubs  his  old  night-cap. 

"  Oh  Doctor !  Doctor !  where's  my  Johnny  ?" 
*  I'm  here,  what  is't  you  want  with  me?' 
"  Oh  Sir!  you  know  I'm  Betty  Foy, 
"  And  I  have  lost  my  poor  dear  boy, 
p  You  know  him — him  you  often  see; 


130 

"  He's  not  so  wise  as  some  folks  be;" 
'  The  devil  take  his  wisdom ! '  said 
The  Doctor,  looking  somewhat  grim, 
*  What,  woman !  should  I  know  of  him?* 
And,  grumbling,  he  went  back  to  bed. 

"  O  woe  is  me !   O  woe  is  me ! 
"  Here  will  I  die;  here  will  I  die; 
"  I  thought  to  find  my  Johnny  here, 
"  But  he  is  neither  far  nor  near, 
"  Oh !  what  a  wretched  mother  1 !" 

She  stops,  she  stands,  she  looks  about, 

Which  way  to  turn  she  cannot  tell. 

Poor  Betty !  it  would  ease  her  pain 

If  she  had  heart  to  knock  again ; 

« — The  clock  strikes  three— a  dismal  knell ! 

Then  up  along  the  town  she  hies, 
No  wonder  if  her  senses  fail, 
This  piteous  news  so  much  it  shock'd  her, 
■  She  quite  forgot  to  send  the  Doctor, 
To  comfort  poor  old  Susan  Gale. 

And  now  she's  high  upon  the  down, 
And  she  can  see  a  mile  of  road, 
"  Oh  cruel !  I'm  almost  three-score ; 
"  Such  night  as  this  was  ne'er  before  L 
"  There's  not  a  single  soul  abroad  !'*' 


131 


She  listens,  but  she  cannot  hear 
The  foot  of  horse,  the  voice  of  man ; 
The  streams  with  softest  sound  are  flowing, 
The  grass  you  almost  hear  it  growing, 
You  hear  it  now  if  e'er  you  can. 

The  owlets  through  the  long  blue  night 
Are  shouting  to  each  other  still : 
Fond  lovers,  yet  not  quite  hob  nob, 
They  lengthen  out  the  tremulous  sob, 
That  echoes  far  from  hill  to  hill. 

Poor  Betty  now  has  lost  all  kope, 
JHer  thoughts  are  bent  on  deadly  sin; 
A  green-grown  pond  she  just  has  pass'd. 
And  from  the  brink  she  hurries  fast, 
Lest  she  should  drown  herself  therein. 

And  now  she  sits  her  down  and  weeps ; 

Such  tears  she  never  shed  before ; 

"  Oh  dear,  dear  poney!  my  sweet  joy! 

"  Oh  carry  back  my  Idiot  boy! 

"  And  we  will  ne'er  o'erload  thee  more." 

A  thought  is  come  into  her  head ; 
"  The  poney  he  is  mild  and  good, 
"  And  we  have  always  used  him  well; 
"  Perhaps  he's  gone  along  the  dell, 
"  And  carried  Johnny  to  the  wood." 


132 

Then  up  she  springs  as  if  on  wings } 
She  thinks  no  more  of  deadly  sin; 
If  Betty  fifty  ponds  should  see, 
The  last  of  all  her  thoughts  would  be, 
To  drown  herself  therein. 

Oh  reader !  now  that  I  might  tell 
What  Johnny  and  his  horse  are  doing ! 
What  they've  been  doing  all  this  time; 
Oh !  could  I  put  it  into  rhyme, 
A  most  delightful  tale  pursuing ! 

Perhaps,  and  no  unlikely  thought ! 
He  with  his  poney  now  doth  roam 
The  cliffs  and  peaks  so  high  that  are, 
To  lay  his  hands  upon  a  star, 
And  in  his  pocket  bring  it  home. 

Perhaps  he's  turned  himself  about, 
His  face  unto  his  horse's  tail, 
And  still  and  mute  in  wonder  lost, 
All  like  a  silent  horseman-ghost, 
He  travels  on  along  the  vale. 

And  now,  perhaps,  he's  hunting  sheep, 
A  fierce  and  dreadful  hunter  he ! 
Yon  valley,  thats  so  trim  and  green, 
In  five  month's  time,  should  he  be  seen, 
desart  wilderness  will  be. 


133 

Perhaps  with  head  and  heels  on  fire, 
And  like  the  very  soul  of  evil, 
He's  galloping  away,  away  ! 
And  so  he'll  gallop  on  for  aye, 
The  bane  of  all  that  dread  the  devil. 

I  to  the  Muses  have  been  bound, 

These  fourteen  years,  by  strong  indentures ; 

Oh  gentle  Muses !  let  me  tell 

But  half  of  what  to  him  befel, 

For  sure !  "he  met  with  strange  adventures. 

Oh  gentle  Muses !  is  this  kind  ? 
Why  will  ye  thus  my  suit  repel? 
Why  of  your  further  aid  bereave  me  ? 
And  can  ye  thus  unfriended  leave  me  ? 
Ye  Muses  i  whom  I  love  so  well. 

Who's  yon,  that  near  the  water-fall 
Which  thunders  down  with  headlong  force* 
Beneath  the  moon,  yet  shining  fair, 
As  careless  as  if  nothing  were, 
Sits  upright  on  a  feeding  horse  ? 

Unto  his  horse,  that's  feeding  free, 
He  seems,  I  think,  the  rein  to  give ; 
Of  moon  or  stars  he  takes  no  heed; 
Of  such  we  in  romances  read,  * 

— 'Tis  Johnny !  Johnny !  as  1  live ! 

Vol.  I.  M 


1,34. 

And  that's  the  very  poney  too, 
Where  is  she, — where  is  Betty  Foy  ? 
She  hardly  can  sustain  her  fears ; 
The  roaring  water-fall  she  hears, 
And  cannot  find  her  Idiot  boy. 

Your  poney's  worth  his  weight  in  gold, 
Then  calm  your  terrors,  Betty  Foy ! 
She's  coming  from  among  the  trees, 
And  now,  all  full  in  view,  she  sees 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  boy. 

And  Betty  sees -the  poney  too: 

Why  stand  you  thus  Good  Betty  Foy  ? 

It  is  no  goblin,  'tis  no  ghost, 

'Tis  he  whom  you  so  long  have  lost, 

He  whom  you  love,  your  Idiot  boy. 

She  looks  again — her  arms  are  up — 
She  screams — she  cannot  move  for  joy; 
She  darts  as  with  a  torrents'  force, 
She  almost  has  o'erturn'd  the  horse, 
And  fast  she  holds  her  Idiot  boy. 

And  Johnny  burrs  and  laughs  aloud, 
AVhether  in  cunning,  or  in  joy, 
I  cannot  tell ;  but  while  he  laughs, 
Betty  a  drunken  pleasure  quaffs, 
To  hear  again  her  Idiot  boy. 


13. 


And  now  she's  at  the  poney's  tail, 
And  now  she's  at  the  poney's  head, 
On  that  side  now,  and  now  on  this, 
And  almost  stifled  with  her  bliss, 
A  few  sad  tears  does  Betty  shed. 

She  kisses  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  boy ! 
She's  happy  here,  she's  happy  there, 
She  is  uneasy  every  where ; 
Her  limbs  are  all  alive  with  joy. 

She  pats  the  poney,  where  or  when 
She  knows  not,  happy  Betty  Foy ! 
The  little  poney  glad  may  be, 
But  he  is  milder  far  than  she, 
You  hardly  can  perceive  his  joy. 

"  Oh !  Johnny,  never  mind  the  Doctor ; 
"  You've  done  your  best,  and  that  is  all." 
She  took  the  reins,  when  this  was  said, 
And  gently  turned  the  poney's  head 
From  the  loud  water-fall. 

By  this  the  stars  were  almost  gone, 
The  moon  was  setting  on  the  hill, 
So  pale  you  scarcely  looked  at  her.4 
The  little  birds  began  to  stir, 
Though  yet  their  tongues  were  still. 


•U6 

The  poney,  Betty,  and  her  boy, 
Wind  slowly  through  the  woody  dale : 
And  who  is  she,  be-times  abroad, 
That  hobbles  up  the  steep  rough  road  ? 
Who  is  it,  but  old  Susan  pale  i  » 

Long,  Susan  lay,  deep  lost  in  thought, 
And  many  dreadful  fears  beset  her, 
Both  for  her  messenger  and  nurse; 
And  as  her  mind  grew  worse  and  worse, 
Her  body  it  grew  better. 

She  turn'd,  she  toss'd  herself  in  bed, 
On  all  sides  doubts  and  terrors  met  her; 
Point  after  point  did  she  discuss ; 
And  while  her  mind  was  fighting  thus, 
Her  body  still  grew  better. 

4  Alas !  what  is  become  of  them  ? 

'  These  fears  can  never  be  endured, 

*  I'll  to  the  wood.' — The  word  scarce  said* 

Did  Susan  rise  up  from  her  bed, 

As  if  by  magic  cured. 

Away  she  posts  up  hill  and  down, 

And  to  the  wood  at  length  is  come, 

She  spies  her  friends,  she  shouts  a  greeting ; 

Oh  me !  it  is  a  merry  meeting, 

As  ever  was  in  Christendom.. 


137 

The  owls  have  hardly  sung  their  last, 
While  our  four  travellers  homeward  wend ; 
The  owls  have  hooted  all  night  long, 
And  with  the  owls  began  my  song, 
And  with  the  owls  must  end. 

For  while  they  all  were  travelling  home,  . 
Cried  Betty,   "  Tell  us  Johnny,  do, 
"  Where  all  this  long  night  you  have  been, 
"  What  you  have  heard,  what  you  have  seen  ? 
"  And  Johnny !  mind,  you  tell  us  truej!" 

Now  Johnny  all  night  long  had  heard 
The  owls  in  tuneful  concert  strive; 
No  doubt  too  he  the  moon  had  seen; 
For  in  the  moonlight  he  had  been 
From  eight  o'clock  till  five. 

And  thus  to  Betty's  question,  he 

Made  answer,  like  a  traveller  bold, 

(His  very  Words  I  give  to  you) 

"  The  cocks  did  crow  to-whoo,  to-whoo, 

"  And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold." 

— Thus  answered  Johnny  in  his  glory, 

And  that  was  all  his  travel's  story. 


Vol.  I  M  2 


139 


LINES 

WRITTEN    NEAR   RICHMOND,    UPON    THE 
THAMES, 

AT  EVENING. 


HOW  rich  the  wave,  in  front,  imprest 

With  evening-twilight's  summer  hues, 

While  facing  thus  the  crimson  west, 

The  boat  her  silent  path  pursues ! 

And  see  how  dark  the  backward  stream ! 

A  little  moment  past,  so  smiling! 

And  still,  perhaps,  with  faithless  gleam, 

Some  other  loiterer  beguiling* 

Such  views  the  youthful  Bard  allure,, 

Eut  heedless  of  the  following  gloom, 

He  deems  their  colours  shall  endure 

'Till  peace  go  with  him  to  the  tomb, 

< — And  let  him  nurse  his  fond  deceit, 

And  what  if  he  must  die  in  sorrow ! 

Who  would  not  cherish  dreams  so  sweet, 

Though  grief  and  pain  may  come  to-morrow .? 


1W 

Glide  gently,  thus  for  ever  glide, 
O  Thames  !  that  other  Bards  may  see,- 
As  lovely  visions  by  thy  side 
As  now,  fair  river !  eome  to  me. 
Oh  glide,/  fair  stream !  for  ever  so ; 
Thy  quiet  soul  on  all  bestowing, 
'Till  all  our  minds  for  ever  flow, 
As  thy  deep  waters  now  are  flowing. 
Vain  thought!  yet  be  as  now  thou  art, 
That  in  thy  waters  may  be  seen 
The  image  of  a  Poet's  heart, 
How  bright,  how  solemn,,  how  serene! 
Such  heart  did  once  the  Poet  bless, 
Who,  pouring  here  a ,* later  ditty, 
Could  find  no  refuge  from  distress, 
But  in  the  milder  grief  of  pity. 
Remembrance  !  as  we  glide  along, 
For  him  suspend  the  dashing  oar, 
And  pray  that  never  child  of  Song 
May  know  his  freezing  sorrows  more. 
How  calm!  how  still!  the  only  sound,. 
The  dripping  of  the  Oar  suspended ! 
— The  evening  darkness  gathers  round 
By  virtue's  holiest  powers  attended.. 


*  Collins's  Ode  on  the  death  of  Thomson,  the  last 
written,  I  believe,  of  the  poems  which  were  publish- 
ed during  his  life  time.  This  Ode  is  also  alluded  to 
in  the  next  stanza. 


141 


EXPOSTULATION 


REPLY. 


"  WHY  William,  on  that  old  grey  stone, 
"  Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day, 
"  Why  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
M  And  dream  your  time  away? 

"  Where  are  your  books  ?  that  light  becmeath'd 
"  To  beings  else  forlorn  and  blind ! 
"  Up !  Up !  and  drink  the  spirit  breath'd 
"  From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

*'  You  look  round  on  your  mother  earth* 
"  As  if  she  for  on  purpose  bore  you ; 
"  As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 
"  And  none  had  lived  before  you  !'* 


142 

One  morning,  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake,. 
When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew  not  why, 
To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake  ; 
And  thus  I  made  reply. 

"  The  eye  it  cannot  chuse  but  see, 
"  We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still; 
"  Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 
"  Against,  or  with  our  will. 

*'  Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  powers, 
"  Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress, 
"  That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours, 
"  In  a  wise  passiveness. 

"  Think  you,  mid  all  this  mighty  sum 
"  Of  things  for  ever  speaking, 
"  That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
"  But  we  must  still  be  seeking  ? 

"  — Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone, 

"  Conversing  as  I  may, 

"  I  sit  upon  this  old  grey  stone, 

**  And  dream  my  time  away." 


143 


THE  TABLES  TURNED;  r 
An  Evening  Scene  on  the  same  Subject, 


UP !  Up !  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks, 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 
Up !  Up !  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double.    ; 

The  sun  above  the  mountain's  head, 

A  freshning  lustre  mellow, 

Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread 

His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books !  'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife, 
Com*,  hear  the  woodland  linnet ; 
How  sweet  his  music !  on  my  life 
There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 


144 

i 

And  hark  !  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings ! 
And  he  is  no  mean  Preacher; 
Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal. wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man ; 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  love  which  Nature  brings ,- 
Our  meddling  intellect 
Mis-shapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things ; 
— We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of- science  and  of  art; 
Close  up  these  barren  leaves ; 
Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives*, 


145 

OLD  MAN  TRAVELLING; 

ANIMAL    TRANQUILITY     AND     DECAY 

A  SKETCH. 


THE  little  hedge-row  birds, 
That  peck  along  the  road,  regard  him  not. 
He  travels  on,  and  in  his  face,  his  step, 
His  gait,  is  one  expression;  every  limb, 
His  look  and  bending  figure,  all  bespeak 
A  man  who  does  not  move  with  pain,  but  moves 
With  thought. — He  is  insensibly  subdued 
To  settled  quiet;  he  is  one  by  whom 
All  effort  seems  forgotten,  one  to  whom 
Long  patience  has  such  mild  composure  given, 
That  patience  now  doth  seem  a  thing,  of  which 
He  hath  no  need.     He  is  by  nature  led    • 
To  peace  so  perfect,  that  the  young  behold 
With  envy,  what  the  old  man  hardly  feels. 
— I  asked  him  whither  he  was  bound,  and  what 
The  object  of  his  journey;  he  replied, 
"  Sir !    I  am  going  many  miles  to  take 
"  A  last  leave  of  my  son,  a  mariner, 
"  \¥fio  from  a  sea-fight  has  been  brought  to 

Falmouth, 
"  And  there  is  dying  in  an  hospital.*' 
Vol.  I.  N 


146 

■ 

THE  COMPLAINT 

OF    A    FORSAKEN 

INDIAN  WOMAN. 


[When  a  Northern  Indian,  from  sickness, 
ds  unable  to  continue  his  journey  with  his 
companions;  he  is  left  behind,  covered  over 
with  Deer  skins,  and  is  supplied  with  water, 
food,  and  fuel,  if  the  situation  of  the  place 
will  afford  it.     He  is  informed  of  the  track 
which  his  companions  intend  to  pursue,  and 
if  he  is  unable  to  follow,  4>r  overtake  them, 
hie  perishes  alone  in  the  Desartj  unless  he 
should  have  the  good  fortune  to  fall  in  with 
some  other  Tribes  of  Indians.     It  is  unne- 
cessary to  add. that  the  females  are  equally, 
or  still  more,  xxposedto  the  same  fate.    See 
that  very  interesting  work,  Hearne's  Journey 
from  Hudson's  Bay  to  the  Northern  Ocean. 
When  the  Northern  Lights,  as  the  same  wri- 
ter informs  us,  vary  their  position  in  the  air, 
they  make  a  rustling  and  a  crackling  noise. 
This  circumstance  is  alluded  to  in  the  first 
stanza  of  the  following  poem.'] 


147 


THE  COMPLAINT, 
fife. 


BEFORE  I  see  another  day 

Oh  let  my  body  die  away  1 

In  sleep  I  heard  the  Northern  Gleams, 

The  stars  they  were  among  my  dreams- j 

In  sleep  did  I  behold  the  skies, 

I  saw  the  crackling  flashes  drive ; 

And  yet  they  are  upon  my  eyes, 

And  yet  I  am  alive. 

Before  I  see  another  day, 

Oh  let  my  body  die  away ! 

My  fire  is  dead:  it  knew  no  pain; 

Yet  is  it  dead,  and   I  remain. 

All  stiff  with  ice  the  ashes  lie ; 

And  they  are  dead,  and  I  will  die. 

When  I  was  well,  I  wished  to  live, 

For  clothes,  for  warmth,  for  food  and  fire; 

But  they  to  me  no  joy  can  give, 

No  pleasure  now,  and  no  desire. 

Then  here  contented  will  I  lie ; 

Alone  I  cannot  fear  to  die^ 


148 


Alas !  you  might  have  dragged  me  on 

Another  day,  a  single,  one  ! 

Too  soon  despair  o'er  me  prevailed; 

Too  soon  my  heartless  spirit  failed; 

When  you  were  gone  my  limbs  were  stronger, 

And  Oh  !  how  grieviously  I  rue, 

That,   afterwards,  a  little  longer, 

My  friends,  I  did  not  follow  you ! 

For  strong  and  without  pain  I  lay, 

My  friends,  when  you  were  gone  away. 

My  child  !  they  gave  thee  to  another, 
A  woman  who  was  not  thy  mother : 
When  from  my  arms  my  babe  they  took, 
On  me  how  strangely  did  he  look  ! 
Through  his  whole  body  something  ran, 
A  most  strange  something  did  I  see ; 
■ — As  if  he  strove  to  be  a  man, 
That  he  might  pull  the  sledge  for  me. 
And  then  he  stretched  his  arms,  how  wild! 
Oh  mercy !  like  a  little  child. 

Mv  little  joy  !   my  little  pride ! 
In  two  days  more  I  must  have  died. 
Then  do  not  weep  and  grieve  for  me ; 
I  feel  I  must'l^iye  died  with  thee.. 


149 

Oh  wind  that  o'er  my  head  art  flying, 
The  way  my  friends  their  course  did  bend, 
I  should  not  feel  the  pain  of  dying, 
Could  I  with  thee  a  message  send. 
Too  soon,  my  friends,  you  went  away; 
For  I  had  many  things  to  say. 

I'll  follow  you  across  the  snow, 
You  travel-  heavily  and  slow: 
In  spite  of  all  my  weary  pain, 
I'll  look  upon  your  tents  again. 
My  fire  is  dead,  and  snowy  white 
The  water  which  beside  it  stood ; 
The  wolf  has  come  to  me  to  night, 
And  he  has  stolen  away  my  food. 
For  ever  left  alone  am  I, 
Then  wherefore  should  I  fear  to  die? 

My  Journey  will  be  shortly  run, 

I  shall  not  see  another  sun ; 

I  cannot  lift  my  limbs  to  know 

If  they  have  any  life  or  no. 

My  poor  forsaken  child  f  if  I 

For  once  could  have  thee  close  to  me, 

With  happy  heart  I  then  would  die, 

And  my  last  thoughts  would  happy  be, 

I  feel  my  body  die  away, 

I  shall  not  see  another  day. 

Vol.  L  N  2 


150 


THE   CONVICT. 


THE  glory  of  evening  was  spread  through 
the  west, 
— On  the  slope  of  a  mountain  I  stood, 
While  the  Joy  that  precedes  the  calm  season 
of  rest 
Rang  loud  through  the  meadow  and  wood. 

"  And  must  we  then  part  from  a  dwelling  so 
fair?" 

In  the  pain  of  my  spirit  1  said; 
And  with  a^deep  sadness  I  turned,  to  repair 

To  the  cell  where  the  convict  is  laid. 

The  thick  ribbed  walls  that  o'ershadow  the  gate 
Resound ;  and  the  dungeons  unfold : 

I  pause ;  and  at  length,  through  the  glimmer- 
ing grate, 
That  Outcast  of  Pity  behold. 

His  black  matted  head  on  his  shoulder  is  bent, 
And  deep  is  the  sigh  of  his  breath, 

And  with  stedfast  dejection  his  eyes  are  intent 
On  the  fetters  that  link  him  to  death. 


151 

'Tis  sorrow  enough  on  that  visage  to  gaze>: 
That  Body  dismiss'd  from  his  care ; 

Yet  my  fancy  has  pierc'd  to  lids  heart,,  and 
pourtrays 
More  terrible  images  there. 

His  bones  are  consumed,  and  his  life-blood  is 
dried 
With  wishes  the  past  to' undo  ; 
And  his  crime,  thro'  the  pains  that  o'erwhelm 
him,  descried, . 
Still  blackens  and  grows  on  his  view. 

When  from  the  dark  synod,  or  blood-reeking 
field, 

To  his  chamber  the  Monarch  is  led, 
Allsoothers  of  sense  their  soft  virtue  shall  yield, 

And  quietness  pillow  his  head. 

But  if  grief,  self-consumed,  in  oblivion  would 
doze, 

And  Conscience  her  tortures  appease, 
'Mid  tumult  and  uproar  this  man  must  repose 

In  the  comfortless  vault  of  disease ! 

When  his  fetters  at  night  have  so  press'd  on 
his  limbs, 

That  the  weight  can  no  longer  be  borne, 
If,  while  a  half-slumber  his  memory  bedims, 

The  wretch  on  his  pallet  should  turn, — 


152 


While  the  jail  mastiff  howls  at  the  dull  clank- 
ing, chain, 

From  the  roots  of  his  hair  there  shall  start 
A  thousand  sharp  punctures  of  cold-sweating 
pain, 
And  terror  shall  leap  at  his  heart. 

But  now  he  half-raises  his  deep-sunken  eye, 

And  the  motion  unsettles  a  tear; 
The  silence  of  sorrow  it  seems  to  supply, 

And  asks  of  me,  why  I  am  here? 

"Poor,  victim!  no  idle  intruder  has  stood 
"  With  o'erweening  complacence  our  state 
to  compare; 
*l  But  one,  whose  first  wish  is  the  wish  to  he 
good, 
"  Is  come  as  a  Brother  thy  sorrows  to  share. 

"  At  thy  name  though  compassion  her  nature 
resign, 
"  Though  in  virtue's  proud  mouth  thy  re- 
port be  a  stain, 
"  My  care, .  if  the  arm  of  the  mighty  were 
mine, 
"■  Would  plant  thee  where  yet  thou  might's t 
blossom  again." 


153 


LINES 

Written  a  few  miles  above  TINTERN  AB- 
BEY, on  revisiting  the  BANKS  OF  THE 
WYE  during  a  Tour;  July  13,  1798. 


Five  years  have  passed;  five  summers,  with 

the  length 
Of  five  long  winters !    and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,    rolling  from  their  mountain- 
springs 
With  a  sweet  inland  murmur.* — Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 
'Which  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  bf  more  deep  seclusion;  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard- 
tufts, 


*  The  river  is  not  affected  by  the  tides  a  few 
miles  above  Tintern. 


154 


Which,  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruitsr 
Among  the  woods  and  copses  lose  themselves, 
Nor,  with  their  green  and  simple  hue,  disturb 
The  wild  green  landscape.     Once  again  I  see 
These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little 

lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild,  these  pastoral  farms 
Green  to  the,  very  door ;  and  wreaths  oft  smoke 
Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees, 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem, 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 
Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 
The  hermit  sits  alone. 

Though  absent  long, 
These  forms  of  beauty  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart, 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind 
With  tranquil  restoration: — Feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure ;  such,  perhaps, 
As  may  have  had  no  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 


155 


Of  aspect  more  sublime:;  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lighten'd : — That  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gentlv  lead  us  on, 
Until  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh !  how  oft, 
In  darkness,  and,  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  day-light,  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart, 
How  oft  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee 
O  sylvan  Wye!    Thou  wanderer  through  the 

woods 
'How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee? 

And  now,   with  gleams  of  half-extinguishM 

thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 


156 


The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but- with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was, 

when  first 
I  came  among  these  hills  j  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  Nature  led ;  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  Nature 

then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion ;  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite ;  a  feeling,  and  a  love, 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur :    Other  gifts 
Have  followed,  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 


157 


Abundant  recompence.     For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing  oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts ;  a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the.  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue-sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man, 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am 

1  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eyerand  ear,  both  what  they  half-create* 
And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  Nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 

Vol.  I.  O 


*  This  line  has  a  close  resemblance  to  an  admi- 
rable line  of  Young,  the  exact  expression  of  which 
I  cannot  recollect. 


153 


The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  hearty  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor,  perchance, 
If  1  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  : 
For  thou  art  with  me,  here,  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river  ;  thou,  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend !  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh !   yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  Sister !  And  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  Heart  that  loved  her ;  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  Years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy;  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men^ 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 


159 


To  blow  against  thee ;  and  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ;  Oh  !  then, 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 
Should  be  thy  portion,   with  what  healing 

thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 
And  these  my  exhortations  !   Nor,  perchance, 
If  I  should  be,   where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these 

gleams 
Of  past  existence,  wilt  thou  then  forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 
We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came, 
Unwearied  in  that  service;  rather  say 
With  warmer  love — Oh  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
More  dear,   both  for  themselves,  and  for  thy 

sake, 

END    OF    THE    FIRST    VOLUME. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS, 


OTHER  POEMS: 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 


BY   W.  WORDSWORTH. 


Quam  nihil  ad  genium,   Papinianc,   tuum! 


VOL.   II. 


FROM    THI     LONDON    SECOND     EDITION. 


^Jjilatieipfiia: 

TRINTED    AND     SOLD     BY     JAMES     HUMPHREYS. 
At  the  N.W.  Corner  of  Walnut  and  Dock-street. 

1802. 


CONTENTS. 
Vol.  II. 


Hart-leap  Well  -  -  -■         Page  5 

There  was  a  Boy,  &c.         -          -            -  17 

The  Brothers,  a  Pastoral  Poem             -         -         -  19 

Ellen  Irwin,  or  the  Braes  of  Kirtle             -  41 

Strange  Fits  of  Passion  I  have  known,  &c.              -  44 

Song            -            -                     ■     -            -         -  46 

A  Slumber  did  my  Spirit  seal,  &c.             -  47 

The  Waterfall  and  the  Eglantine         -.  48 

The  Oak  and  the  Broom,  a  Pastoral            w          -  51 

Lucy  Gray  -----  56 
The  Idle  Shepherd-Boys,  or  Dungoon-Gill  Force,  a 

Pastoral             -             -             -             -  59 

'Tis  said  that  some  have  died  for  Love        *    -        -  63 

Poor  Susan  -  -  -  66 
Inscription  for  the  Spot  where  the  Hermitage  stood 

on  St.  Herbert's  Island,  Derwent  Water  -  -  68 
Inscription  for  the  House   (an  Out-house)    on  the 

Island  at  Grasmere             -             -  69 

To  a  Sexton             -             -             -  71 

Andrew  Jones             -             -             -  73 

The  two  Thieves,  or  the  last  Stage  of  Avarice         -  75 

A  Whirl-blast  from  behind  the  Hill,  &c.         -      •   -  79 

Song  for  the  wandering  Jew             -             -  80 

Ruth             -             -            -             -             -        -  Si 


CONTENTS. 

Page 
Lines  written  with  a  Slate  Pencil  upon  a  Stone,  &c.         92 

Lines  written  on  a  Tablet  in  a  School  94 

The  two  April  Mornings             -  96 

The  Fountain,  a  Conversation             -  99 

Nutting             -  -       103 

Three  Years  she  grew  in  Sun  and  Showe -,  &c.  -       ic6 

The  Pet-Lamb,  a  Pastoral             -              -  -       108 
Written  in  Germany  on  one  cf  the  coldest  days  of 

the  Century               -                                   -  114 

The  Childless  Father                 -                -  -       117 

The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar,  a  Description  -       119 

Rural  Architecture             -  nj 

A  Poet's  Epitaph             -  -       129 

A  Character             -             .-             -             -  13a 

A  Fragment             -              -              -              -  134 

PoenlB  on  the  Naming  of  Places               -  -       *37 

Michael,  a  Pastoral                  -                 -  -       149 

Note  to  the  Thorn            -         -         _         _  -       169 

Note  to  the  Ancient  Mariner         _  iyX 

Note  to  the  Poem  on  Revisiting  *he  Wye         -  -       172 

Notes  to  the  Poem  of  the  Brothers               -  -       172 

Notes  to  the  Poem  of  Michael                 -  -        ibid 


HART-LEAP  WELL. 


HART-LEAP   WELL, 


Hart  leap  Well  is  a  small  spring  of  water,  about 
five  miles  from  Richmond  in  Yorkshire,  and  near 
the  side  of  the  road  vohich  leads  from  Richmond 
to  Askrigg,  Its  name  is  derived  from  a  remark- 
able chace,  the  memory  of  vohich  is  preserved  by 
the  monuments  spoken  of  in  the  Second  Part  of  the 
following  Poem,  vohich  monuments  do  novo  exist 
as  I  have  there  described  them. 

THE  Knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley 

moor 
With  the  slow  motion  of  a  summer's  cloud ; 
He  turn'd  aside  towards  a  Vassal's  door, 
And,  "  Bring  another  Horse !"  he  cried  aloud. 

u  Another  Horse !" — That  shout  the  Vassal 

heard, 
And  saddled  his  best  steed,  a  comely  Grey ; 
Sir  Walter  mounted  him;  he  was  the  third 
Which  he  had  mounted  on  that  glorious  day. 


Joy  sparkled  in  the  prancing  Courser's  eyes; 
The  horse  and  horseman  are  a  happy  pair ; 
But,  though  Sir  Walter  like  a  falcon  flies, 
There  is  a  doleful  silence  in  the  air. 

A  rout  this  morning  left  Sir  Walter's  Hall, 
That  as  they  gallop'd  made  the  Echoes  roar; 
But  horse  and  man  are  vanished,  one  and  all ; 
Such  race,  I  think,  was  never  seen  before. 

Sir  Walter,  restless  as  a  veering  wind, 
Calls  to  the  few  tired  dogs  that  yet  remain : 
Brach,  Swift,  and  Music,  noblest  of  their  kind, 
Follow,  and  weary,  up  the  mountain  strain. 

The  Knight  halloo'd,  he  chid  and  cheer'd 

them  on 
With  suppliant  gestures  and  upbraidings  stern ; 
But  breath  and  eye-sight  fail,  and,  one  by  one, 
The  dogs  are  stretch' d  among  the  mountain  fern. 

Where  is  the  throng,  the  tumult  of  thechace? 
The  bugles  that  so  joyfully  were  blown? 
—This  race,  it  looks  not  like  an  earthly  race ; 
Sir  Walter  and  the  Hart  are  left  alone. 

The  poor  Hart  toils  along  the  mountain  side; 
I  will  not  stop  to  tell  how  far  he  fled, 
Nor  will  I  mention  by  what  death  he  died; 
But  now  the  Knight  beholds  him  lying  dead 


Dismounting  then,  he  lean'd  against  a  thorn ; 
He  had  no  follower,  dog,  nor  man,  nor  boy ; 
He  neither  smack'd  his  whip,  nor  blew  his  horn, 
But  gaz'd  upon  the  spoil  with  silent  joy. 

Close  to  the  thorn  on  which  Sir  Walter 

lean'd 
Stood  his  dumb  partner  in  this  glorious  act; 
Weak  as  a  lamb  the  hour  that  it  is  yean'd, 
And  foaming  like  a  mountain  cataract ! 

Upon  his  side  the  Hart  was  lying  stretch 'd, 
His  nose  half  touch'd  a  spring  beneath  a  hill, 
And  with  the  last  deep  groan  his  breath  had 

fetch'd 
The  waters  of  the  spring  were  trembling  still. 

And  now,  too  happy  for  repose  or  rest, 

Was  never  man  in  such  a  joyful  case, 

Sir  Walter  walk'd  all  round,  north,  south  and 

west, 
And  gaz'd,  and  gaz'd  upon  that  darling  place ! 

And  turning  up  the  hill,  it  was  at  least 
Nine  roods  of  sheer  ascent,  Sir  Walter  found 
Three  several  marks,    which  with  his  hoofs 

the  beast 
Had  left  imprinted  on  the  verdant  ground. 

Vol.  II.  B 


vo 


Sir  Walter  wiped  his  face,  and  cried,  *  Till  now 
'  Such  sight  was  never  seen  by  living  eyes ! 

*  Three  leaps  have  borne  him  from  this  lofty 

brow, 

*  Down  to  the  very  fountain  where  he  lies ! 

4  I'll  build  a  Pleasure-house  upon  this  spot, 
'And  a  small  Arbour,  made  for  rural  joy; 
■  'Twill  be  the  Traveller's  shed,  the  Pilgrim's 
cot, 

*  A  place  of  Love  for  damsels  that  are  coy. 

*  A  cunning  artist  will  I  Tiave  to  frame 
'  A  Bason  for  that  fountain  in  the  dell ; 

*  And  they,  who  do  make  mention  of  the  same, 
1  'From  this  day  forth,  shall  call  it  Hart- leap 

WelL 

■*  And  gallantbrute !  to  make  thy  praises  known, 
f  Another  monument  shall  here  be  rais'd: 

*  Three  several  Pillars,   each  a  rough  hewn 

stone, 
'  And  planted  where  thy  hoofs  the  turf  have 
graz'd. 

x  And  in  the  summer-time,  when  days  are  long, 
*.  I  will  come  hither  with  my  paramour, 

*  And  with  the  dancers,  and  the  minstrel's  song,  I 

*  We  will  make  merry  in  that  pleasant  bower.  & 


I'l 


*  Till  the  foundations  of  the  mountains  fail 
<  My  Mansion  with  its  Arbour  shall  endure; 
*■ — The  joy  of  them,  who  till  the  fields  of 

Swale,. 
1  And  them  who  dwell  among  the  woods  of 

lire!'' 

Then  home  he  went,  and  left  the  Hart,  stone 

dead, 
With  breathless  nostrils  stretch'd  above   the 

spring. 
And  sooa  the  Knight  performed  what  he  had 

said, 
The  fame  whereof  thro'  many  a  land  did  ring; 

Ere  thrice  the  moon  into  her  port  had  steer'd, 
A  Cup  of  stone  received  the  living  Well ; 
Three  Pillars  of  rude  stone  Sir  Walter  rear'd, 
And  built  a  House  of  Pleasure  in  the  dell. 

And  near  thefountaini  flowers  of  stature  tall 
With  trailing  plants  and  trees  were  intertwin'd, 
Which;  soon- composed  a  little  Sylvan  Hall, 
A  leafy  shelter  from  the  sun  and  wind. 

And  thither,  when  the  summer  days  were  long, 
Sir  Walter  journey'd  with  his  paramour; 
And  with  the  dancers  and  the  minstrel's  song 
Made  merriment  within  that  pleasant  bower. 


12 


The  Knight,  Sir  Walter,  died  in  course  of  time, 
And  his  bones  lie  in  his  paternal  vale. — 
But  there  is  matter  for  a  second  rhyme, 
And  I  to  this  would  add  another  Tale. 


PART  SECOND. 

The  moving  accident  is  not  my  trade, 
To  curl  the  blood  I  have  no  ready  arts ; 
'Tis  my  delight,  alone  in  summer  shade, 
To  pipe  a  simple  song  to  thinking  hearts. 

As  I  from  Hawes  to  Richmond  did  repair, 
It  chancM  that  I  saw,  standing  in  a  dell, 
Three  Aspins,  at  three  corners  of  a  square, 
And  one,  not  four  yards  distant,  near  a  Well. 

What  this  imported  I  could  ill  divine, 
And,  pulling  now  the  rein  my  horse  to  stop, 
I  saw  three  Pillars  standing  in  a  line, 
The  last  stone  pillar  on  a  dark  hill-top. 

The  trees  were  grey,  with  neither  arms  nor 

head; 
Half-wasted  the  square  mound  of  tawny  green ; 
So  that  you  just  might  say,  as  then  I  said, 
"  Here  in  old  time  the  hand  of  man  has  been." 


13 


Flook'd  upon  the  hills  both  far  and  near; 
More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey : 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  spring-time  came  not  here, 
And  Nature  here  were  willing  to  decay. 

I  stood  in  various  thoughts  and  fancies  lost, 
When  one,  who  was  in  Shepherd's  garb  attired, 
Came  up  the  hollow.     Him  did  I  accost, 
And  what  this  place  might  be  of  him  inquir'd. 

The  Shepherd  stop'd,  and  that  same  story  told 
Which  in  my  former  rhyme  I  have  rehears'd  : 

*  A  jolly  place  (said  he)  in  times  of  old! 

'  But  something  ails  it  now;  the  spot  is  cursed  1 

*  You  see  these  lifeless  stumps  of  Aspin  wood, 
'  Some  say  that  they  are  beeches,  others  elms, 
1  These  were  the  Bower;  and  here  a  Mansion 

stood, 
'  The  finest  palace  of  a  hundred  realms.  ; 

'  The  Arbour  does,  its  own  condition  tell, 
«  You  see  the  stones,  the  fountain,   and  the 
stream  j 

*  But  as  to  the  Great  Lodge,  you  might  as  well 

*  Hunt  half  a  day  for  a  forgotten  dream. 

Vol.  II.  B2 


14 


'  There's  neither  dog  nor  heifer,  horse  nor 
sheep, 

*  Will  wet  his  lips  within  that  cup  of  stone ; 
'  And,  oftentimes,  when  all  are  fast  asleep, 

*  This  water  doth  send  forth  a  dolorous  groan. 

'  Some  say  that  here  a  Murder  has  been  done, 
■  And  Blood  cries  out  for  Blood  !    But  for  my 
part, 

*  I've  guess'd,  when  I've  been  sitting  in  the  sun, 
'  That  it  was  all  for  that  unhappy  Hart ! 

'  What  thoughts  must  through  the  creature's 
brain  have  pass'd ! 

*  To  this  place  from  the  stone  upon  the  steep 
'  Are  but  three  bounds,  and  look,  Sir,  at  this 

last? 

*  O  Master !  it  has  been  a  cruel  leap ! 

'  For  thirteen  hours  he  ran  a  desperate  race ; 

*  And,  in  my  simple  mind,  we  cannot  tell 

*  What  cause  the  Hart  might  have  to  love  this 

place, 

*  And  come  and  make  his  death-bed  near  the 

Well. 

'  Here  on  the  grass,  perhaps,  asleep  he  sank, 
1  LulPd  by  this  fountain,  in  the  summer-tide; 
'  This  water  was,  perhaps,  the  first  he  drank 
'  When  he  had  wander 'd  from  his  mother's  side, 


15 


*  In  April  here,  beneath  the  scented  thorn, 

6  He  heard  the  birds  their  morning  carols  sing, 
'And  he,  perhaps,  for  aught  we  know,  was 
born 

*  Not  half  a  furlong  from  that  self  same  spring. 

'  But  now !  here's  neither  grass  nor  pleasant 
shade;  '     * 

J  The  sun  on  drearier  hollow  never  shone : 

*  So  will  it  be,  as  1  have  often  said, 

*  Till  trees,  and  stones,  and  fountain,  all  are 

gone.' 

"  Grey-headed  Shepherd,  thou  hast  spoken 

weft; 
"  Small  difference  lies  between  thy  creed  and 

mine ; 
"  This  Beast  not  unobserv'd  by  Nature  fell, 
"  His  death  was  mourn'd  by  sympathy  divine. 

"  The  Being  that  is  in  the  clouds  and  air, 
"  That  is  in  the  green  leaves  among  the  groves, 
"  Maintains  a  deep  and  reverential  care 
"  For  them,  the  quiet  creatures,  whom  he  loves. 

"  The  Pleasure-house  is  dust,  behind,  before! 
"  This  is  no  common  waste,  no  common 

gloom ; 
"  But  Nature,  in  due  course  of  time,  once  more 
"  Shall  here  put  on  her  beauty  and  her  bloom. 


xe 


"  She  leaves  these  objects  to  a  slow  decay, 
"That  what  we  are,  and  have  been,  may  be 

known ;  a 
"  But,  at  the  coming  of  the  milder  day, 
"These monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown; 

"  One  lesson,  Shepherd,  let  us  two  divide,. 
**  Taught  both  by  what  she  shews*  and  what 

conceals ; 

"  Never  to  blend  our  Pleasure  or  our  Pride 
"With  Sorrow,  of the  meatiest  thing  that 

/eels." 


17 


THERE  was  a  Boy,  ye  knew  him  well,  ye 

Cliffs 
And  Islands  of  Winander !  many  a  time, 
At  evening,  when  the  stars  had  just  begun 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone, 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  glimmering  lake, 
And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 
PressM  closely  palm  to  palm  and  to  his  mouth 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument^ 
Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  Owls 
That  they  might  answer  him.  And  they  would 

shout 
Across  the  wat'ry  vale  and  shout  again 
Responsive  to  his  call,  with  quivering  peals, 
And  long halloos,  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud 
Redoubled  and  redoubled,  a  wild  scene 
Of  mirth  and  jocund  din.  And  when  it  chanced 
That  pause?  of  deep  silence  mock'd  his  skill, 
Then,  sometimes,  in  that  silence,  whilehe  hung 
Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprize 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 


IS 


Of  mountain  torrents,  or  the  visible  scene 
Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 
With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 
Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  receiv'd* 
Into  the  bosom,  of  the  steady  lake. 

Fair  are  the  woods,  and  beauteous  is  the  spot, 
The  vale  where  he  was  born;  the  Church-yard 

hangs 
Upon  a  slope  above  the  village  school, 
And  there  along  that  bank  when  I  have  pass'd 
At  Evening,  I  believe,  that  near  his  grave 
A  full  half-hour  together  I  have  stood 
Mute — for  he  died  when  he  was  ten  years  old. 


19 

THE  BROTHERS, 

A  PASTORAL  POEM.* 


'  THESE  Tourists,  Heaven  preserve  us !  needs 

must  live 
4  A  profitable  life :  Some  glance  along, 

*  Rapid  and  gay,  as  if  the  earth  were  air, 
4  And  they  were  butterflies  to  wheel  about 

*  Long  as  their  summer  lasted ;  some,  as  wise, 

*  Upon  the  forehead  of  a  jutting  crag 

*  Sit  perch'd  with  book  and  pencil  on  their 

knee, 

*  And  look  and  scribble,  scribble  on  and  look, 
'Until  a  man  might  travel  twelve  stout  miles, 

*  Or  reap  an  acre  of  his  neighbour's  corn. 
1  But  for  that  moping  son  of  Idleness, 

'  Why  can  he  tarry  yonder ? — In  our  Church 
yard 


*  This  Poem  was  intended  to  be  the  concluding 
Poem  of  a  series  of  Pastorals,  the  scene  of  which 
was  laid  among  the  mountains  of  Cumberland  and 
Westmoreland.  I  mention  this  to  apologize  for  the 
abruptness  with  which  the  Poem  begins. 


20 


*  Is  neither  epitaph  nor  monument, 

*  Tomb-stone  nor  name,  only  the  turf  we  tread, 

*  And  a  few  natural  graves. '  To  Jane,  his  wife, 
Thus  spake  the  homely  Priest  of  Ennerdale. 
It  was  a  July  evening,  and  he  sate 
Upon  the  long  stone-seat  beneath  the  eaves 
Of  his  old  cottage,  as  it  chanced  that  day, 
Employ'd  in  winter's  work.     Upon  the  stone 
His  wife  sat  near  him,  teasing  matted  wool, 
While,  from  the  twin  cards  tooth'd  with  glit- 
tering wire, 

He  fed  the  spindle  of  his  youngest  child, 
Who  turn'd  her  large  round  wheel  in  the  open 

air 
With  back  and  forward  steps.     Towards  the 

field 
In  which  the  parish  chapel  stood  alone, 
Girt  round  with  a  bare  ring  of  mossy  wall, 
While  half  an  hour  went  by,  the  Priest  had 

sent 
Many  a  long  look  of  wonder,  and  at  last, 
Risen  from  his  seat,  beside  the  snowy  ridge 
Of  carded  wool  which  the  old  man  had  piled, 
He  laid  his  implements  with  gentle  care, 
Each  in  the  other  lock'd ;  and,  down  the  path 
Which  from  his  cottage  to  the  church-yard  led, 
He  took  his  way,  impatient  to  accost 
The  Stranger,    whom  he  saw  still  lingering 

there. 


21 


*Twas  one  well  known  to  him  informer  days, 
A  Shepherd-lad ;  who,  ere  his  thirteenth  year 
Had  chang'd  his  calling ;  with  the  mariners 
A  fellow-mariner,  and  so  had  fared 
Thro'  twenty  seasons ;  but  he  had  been  rear'd 
Among  the  mountains,  and  he  in  his  heart 
Was  half  a  shepherd  on  the  stormy  seas. 
Oft  in  the  piping  shrouds  had  Leonard  heard 
The  tones  of  water-falls,  and  inland  sounds 
Of  caves  and  trees ;  and  when  the  regular  wind 
Between  the  Tropics  fill'd  the  steady  sail 
And  blew  with  the  same  breath  through  days 

and  weeks, 
Lengthening  invisibly  its  weary  line 
Along  the  cloudless  main,  he,  in  those  hours 
Of  tiresome  indolence  would  often  hang 
Over  the  vessel's  side,  and  gaze  and  gaze, 
And  while  the  broad  green  wave  and  sparkling 

foam 
Flash'd  round  him  images  and  hues,   that 

wrought 
In  union  with  the  employment  of  his  heart, 
He,  thus  by  feverish  passion  overcome, 
Even  with  the  organs  of  his  bodily  eye, 
Below  him,  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep 
Saw  mountains,  saw  the  forms  of  sheep  that 

graz'd 
On  verdant  hills,  with  dwellings  among  trees, 

Vol.  II.  C 


22 


And  shepherds  clad  m  the  same  country  grey 
Which  he  himself  had  worn.* 

And  now  at  length, 
From  perils  manifold,  with  some  small  wealth 
Acqnir'd  by  traffic  in  the  Indian  Isles, 
To  his  paternal  home  he  is  return'd, 
With  a  determin'd  purpose  to  resume 
The  life  which  he  liv'd  there,  both  for  the  sake 
Of  many  darling  pleasures,  and  the  love 
Which  to  an  only  brother  he  bas  borne 
In  all  his  hardships,  since  that  happy  time 
When,  whether  it  blew  foul  or  fair,  they  two 
Were  brother  Shepherds  on  their  native  hills. 
—They  were  the  last  of  all  their  race ;  and  now, 
When  Leonard  had  approach'd  his  home,  his 

heart 
Fail'd  in  him,  and,  not  venturing  to  inquire 
Tidings  of  one  whom  he  so  dearly  lov'd, 
Towards  the  Church-yard  he  had  turn'd  aside, 
That,  as  he  knew  in  what  particular  spot 
His  family  were  laid,  he  thence  might  learn 
If  still  his  brother  liv'd,  or  to  the  file 
Another  grave  was  added.— He  had  found 
Another  grave,  near  which  a  full  half  hour 


*  This  description  of  the  Calenture  is  stretched  from 
an  imperfect  recollection  of  an  admirable  one  in  profe, 
by  Mr.  Gilbert,  Author  of  the  Hurricane. 


23 


He  had  remain'd,  but,  as  he  gaz'd,  there  grew 
Such  a  confusion  in  his  memory, 
That  he  began  to  doubt,  and  he  had  hopes 
That  he  had  seen  this  heap  of  turf  before, 
That  it  was  not  another  grave,  but  one 
He  had  forgotten.     He  had  lost  his  path, 
As  "up  the  vale  he  came  that  afternoon, 
Thro'  fields  which  once  had  been  well  known 

to  him. 
And  Oh!   what  joy  the  recollection  now 
Sent  to  his  heart !  he  lifted  up  his  eyes, 
And  looking  round  he  thought  that  heperceiv'd 
Strange  alteration  wrought  on  every  side 
Among  the  woods  and  fields,  and  that  the  rocks, 
And  the  eternal  hills  themselves' were  chang'd. 

By  this  the  Priest  who  down  the  field  had  come 
Unseen  by  Leonard,  at  the  church-yard  gate 
Stopp'd  short,  and  thence,  at  leisure,  limb  by- 
limb, 
He  scann'd  him  with  a  gay  complacency. 
Aye,  thought  the  Vicar,  smiling  to  himself, 
'Tis  one  of  those  who  needs  must  leave  the  path 
Of  the  world's  business,  to  go  wild  alone: 
His  arms  have  a  perpetual  holiday; 
The  happy  man  will  creep  about  tbe  fields 
Following  his  fancies  by  the  hour,  to  bring 
Tears  down  his  cheek,  or  solitary  smiles 
Into  his  face,  until  the  setting  sun 


24 


Write  Fool  upon  his  forehead.     Planted  thus 
Beneath  a  shed  that  over-arch'd  the  gate 
Of  this  rude  church-yard,  till  the  stars  appeared 
The  good  man  might  have  commun'd  with 

himself, 
But  that  the  Stranger,  who  had  left  the  grave, 
Approach'd;  he  reeogniz'd  the  Priest  at  once, 
And  after  greetings  interchanged,  and  given 
By  Leonard  to  the  Vicar  as  to  one 
Unknown  to  him,  this  dialogue  ensued. 

LEONARD. 

You  live,  Sir,  in  these  dales  a  quiet  life: 
Your  years  make  up  one  peaceful  family ; 
And  who  would  grieve  and  fret ,  if,  welcome 

come 
And  welcome  gone,  they  are  so  like  each  other 
They  cannot  be  rememberM.    Scarce  a  funeral 
Comes  to  this  church-yard  once  in  eighteen 

months ; 
And  yet,  some  changes  must  take  place  among 

you, 
And  you,  who  dwell  here,  even  among  these 

rocks 
Can  trace  the  finger  of  mortality, 
And  see,  that  with  our  threescore  years  and  ten 

We  are  not  all  that  perish. 1  remember, 

For  many  years  ago  I  pass'd  this  road, 
There  was  a  foot- way  all  along  the  fields 


25 


By  the  brook- side— 'tis  gone — and  that  dark 

cleft! 
To  me  it  does  not  seem  to  wear  the  face  which 

then  it  had. 

PRIEST. 

Why,  Sir,  for  aught  I  know, 
That  chasm  is  much  the  same — ■ 

LEONARD. 

But,  surely,  yonder — 

PRIEST. 

Aye,  there  indeed,  your  memory  is  a  friend 
That  does  not  play  you  false.-^On  that  tall 

pike, 
(It  is  the  loneliest  place  of  all  these  hills) 
There  were  two  Springs  which  bubbled  side 

by  side, 
As  if  they  had  been  made  that  they  might  be 
Companions  for  each  other;   ten  years  back, 
Close  to  those  brother  fountains,  the  huge  crag 
Was  rent  with  lightning — one  is  dead  and  gone, 

The  other,  left  behind,  is  flowing  still. 

For  accidents  and  changes  such  as  these, 
Why  we  have  store  of  them]  a  water-spout 
Will  bring  down  half  a  mountain  •  what  a  feast 
For  folks  that  wander  up  and  down  like  you,,. 

Vol.  If.  C  2 


26 


To  see  an  acre's  breadth  of  that  wide  elifF 
One  roaring  cataract — a  sharp  May  storm 
Will  come  with  loads, of  January  snow, 
And  in  one  night  send  twenty  score  of  sheep 
To  feed  the  raven's,  or  a  Shepherd  dies 
By  some  untoward  death  among  the  rocks : 
The  ice  breaks  up,  and  sweeps  away  a  bridge — 
A  wood  is  fell'd: — and  then  for  our  own 

homes  I 
A  child  is  born  or  christen'd,  a  field  plough  'd, 
A  daughter  sent  to  service,  a  webb  spun, 
The  old  house-clock  is  deck'd  with  a  new  face ; 
And  hence,  so  far  from  wanting  facts  or  dates  - 
To  chronicle  the  time,  we  all  have  here 
A  pair  of  Diaries,  one  serving,  Sir, 
For  the  whole  dale,  and  one  for  each  fire-side ; 
Your's  was  a  Stranger's  judgment  -}  for  histo- 
rians 
Commend  me  to  these  vallies. 

LEONARD. 

Yet  your  church-yard 
Seems,  if  such  freedom  may  be  used  with  you, 
To  say  that  you  are  heedless  of  the  past. 
Here's  neither  head  nor  foot-stone,   plate  of 

brass, 
Cross-bones  or  skull,  type  of  our  earthly  state, 
Or  emblem  of  our  hopes ;  the  dead  man's  home 
Is  but  a  fellow  to  that  pasture  field. 


27 


PRIEST. 

Why  there,  Sir,  is  a  thought  that's  new  to  me: 
The  Stone-cutters,  'tis  true,  might  beg  their 

bread 
If  every  English  church-yard  were  like  ours : 
Yet  your  conclusion  wanders  from  the  truth. 
We  have  no  need  of  names  and  epitaphs; 
We  talk  about  the  dead  by  our  fire-sides. 
And  then  for  our  immortal  part,  we  want 
No  symbols,  Sir,  to  tell  us  that  plain  tale: 
The  thought  of  death  sits  easy  on  the  man 
Who  has  been  born  and  dies  among  the  moun- 
tains : 

LEONARD. 

Your  dalesmen,  then,  do  in  each  others  thoughts 
Possess  a  kind  of  second  life :  no  doubt 
You,  Sir,  could  help  me  to  the  history 
Of  half  these  Graves  ? 

PRIEST. 

With  what  I've  witness'd,  and  with  what  I've 

heard, 
Perhaps  I  might ;  and  on  a  winter's  evening, 
If  you  were  seated  at  my  chimney's  nook, 
By  turning  o'er  these  hillocks  one  by  one, 
We  two  could  travel,  Sir,  through  a  strange 

round, 
Yet  all  in  the  broad  high-way  of  the  world. 


-28 


Now  there's  a  grave — your  foot  is  half  upon  It, 
It  looks  just  like  the  rest,  and  yet  that  man 
Died  broken-hearted ! 

LEONARD. 

'Tis  a  common  case, 
We'll  take  another:  Who  is  he  that  lies 
Beneath  yon  ridge,    the  last  of  those  three 

graves ; — 
It  touches  on  that  piece  of  native  rock 
Left  in  the  church-yard  wall.. 

PRIEST- 

That's  Walter  Ewbank. 
He  had  as  white  a  head  and  fresh  a  cheek 
As  ever  were  produc'd  by  youth  and  age 
Engendering  in  the  blood  of  hale  fourscore. 
For  five  long  generations  had  the  heart 
Gf  Walter's  forefathers  o'erflowed  the  bounds 
Of  their  inheritance,  that  single  cottage, 
You  see  it  yonder,  and  those  few  green  fields, 
They  toil'd  and  wrought,  and  still,  from  sire 

to  son, 
Each  struggled,  and  each  yielded  as  before 
A  little — yet  a  little — and  old  Walter, 
They  left  to  him  the  family  heart,  and  land 
With  other  burthens  than  the  crop  it  bore. 
Year  after  year  the  old  man  still  preserv'd 
A  chearful  mind,  and  buffeted  with  bond, 


29 


Interest,  and  mortgages ;  at  last  he  sank. 
And  went  into  his  grave  before  his  time. 
Poor  Walter !  whether  it  was  care  that  spurr'd 

him 
God  only  knows,  but  to  the  very  last 
He  had  the  lightest  foot  in  Ennerdale: 
His  pace  was  never  that  of  an  old  man : 
I  almost  see  him  tripping  down  the  path 
With  his  two  Grandsons  after  him — but  you, 
Unless  our  landlord  be  your  host  to-night, 
Have  far  to  travel,  and  in  these  rough  paths 
Even  in  the  longest  day  of  midsummer— 

LEONARD. 
But  these  two  Orphans ! 

PRIEST. 

Orphans !   such  they  were — 
Yet  not  while  Walter  hVd — for,  though  their 

parents 
Lay  buried  side  by  side  as  now  they  lie, 
The  old  man  was  a  father  to  the  boys, 
Two  fathers  in  one  father !     And  if  tears 
Shed,  when  he  talk'd  of  them  where  they  were 

not, 
And  hauntings  from  the  infirmity  of  love, 
Are  aught  of  what  makes  up  a  mother's  heart, 
This  old  man  in  the  day  of  his  old  age 
Was  half  a  mother  to  them. — If  vou  weep,  Sir, 


30 


To  hear  a  stranger  talking  about  strangers, 
Heaven  bless  you  when  you  are  among  your 

kindred ! 
Aye.     You  may  turn  that  way — it  is  a  grave 
Which  will  bear  looking  at. 

LEONARD. 

These  boys,  I  hope 
They  lov'd  this  good  old  Man — 

PRIEST. 

They  did — and  truly ; 
But  that  was  what  we  almost  overlook'd, 
They  were  such  darlings  of  each  other.     For, 
Though  from  their  cradles  they  had  lived  with 

Walter, 
The  only  kinsman  near  them  in  the  house, 
Yet  he  being  old,  they  had  much  love  to  spare* 
And  it  all  went  into  each  other's  hearts. 
Leonard,  the  elder  by  just  eighteen  months, 
Was  two  years  taller ;  'twas  a  joy  to  see, 
To  hear,  to  meet  them !  From  their  house  the- 

school 
Was  distant  three  short  miles,  and  in  the  time 
Of  storm  and  thaw,  when  every  water-course 
And  unbridg'd  stream,  such  as  you  may  have 

notic'd 
Crossing  our  roads  at  every  hundred  steps, 
Was  swoln  into  a  noisy  rivulet, 


31 


Would  Leonard  then,  when  elder  boys  perhaps 
Remain'd  at  home,  go  staggering  thro'  the  fords 
Bearing  his  Brother  on  his  back — I've  seen  him 
On  windy  davs,  in  one  of  those  stray  brooks, 
Aye,  more  than  once  I've  seen  him  mid  leg  deep, 
Their  two  books  lying  both  on  a  dry  stone 
Upon  the  hither  side ; — and  once  I  said, 
As  I  remember,  looking  round  these  rocks 
And  hills  on  which  we  all  of  us  were  born, 
That  God  who  made  the  Great  Book  of  the 

World 
Would  bless  such  Piety — - 

LEONARD. 

It  may  be  then — 

PRIEST. 

Never  did  worthier  lads  break  English  bread : 
The  finest  Sunday  that  the  Autumn  saw, 
With  all  its  mealy  clusters  of  ripe  nuts, 
Could  never  keep  these  boys  away  from  church, 
Or  tempt  them  to  an  hour  of  Sabbath  breach. 
Leonard  and  James  !   I  warrant,  every  corner 
Among  these  rocks,  and  every  hollow  place 
Where  foot  could  come,  to  one  or  both  of  them 
Was  known  as  well  as  to  the  flowers  that  grew 

there. 
Like  roe-bucks  they  went  bounding  o'er  the 

hills: 


32 

They  piay'd  like  two  young  ravens  on  the  crags : 
Then  they  could  write,  aye  and  speak  too,  as 

well 
As  many  of  their  betters — and  for  Leonard ! 
The  very  night  before  he  went  away, 
In  my  own  house  I  put  into  his  hand 
A  Bible,  and  I'd  wager  twenty  pounds, 
That,  if  he  is  alive,  he  has  it  yet. 

LEONARD. 

It  seems,  these  brothers  have  not  liv'd  to  be 
A  comfort  to  each  other. — 

PRIEST. 

That  they  might 
Live  to  that  end,  is  what  both  old  and  young 
In  this  our  valley  all  of  us  have  wish'd, 
And  what,  for  my  part,  I  have  often  pray'd : 
But  Leonard — 

LEONARD. 

Then  James  still  is  left  among  you — 

PRIEST. 

'Tis  of  the  elder  brother  I  am  speaking: 
They  had  an  Uncle,  he  was  at  that  time 
A  thriving  man,  and  traffick'd  on  the  seas : 
And,  but  for  this  same  Uncle,  to  this  hour 
Leonard  had  never  handled  rope  or  shroud. 


33 


For  the  Boy  loved  the  life  which  we  lead  here: 
And  though  a  very  Stripling,  twelve  years  old, 
His  soul  was  knit  to  this  his  native  soil. 
But,  as  I  said,  old  Walter  was  too  weak 
To  strive  with  such  a  torrent ;  when  he  died, 
The  estate  and  house  were  sold,  and  all  their 

sheep, 
A  pretty  flock,  and  which,  for  aught  I  know, 
Had  clothed  the  Ewbanks  for  a  thousand  years. 
Well — all  was  gone,  and  they  were  destitute : 
And  Leonard,  chiefly  for  his  brother's  sake, 
Resolv'd  to  try  his  fortune  on  the  seas. 
'Tis  now  twelve  years  since  we  had  tidings 

from  him. 
If  there  was  one  among  us  who  had  heard 
That  Leonard  Ewbank  was  come  home  again, 
From  the  great  Gavel,*  downby  Leeza's  Banks, 
And  down  the  Enna,  far  as  Egremont, 

Vol.  II.  D 


*  The  great  Gavel,  s«  called,  I  imagine,  from  its 
resemblance  to  the  Gable  end  of  a  house,  is  one  of  the 
highest  of  the  Cumberland  mountains.  It  stands  at 
the  head  of  the  several  vales  of  Ennerdale,  Wastdale, 
and  Borrowdale. 

The  Leeza  is  a  River  which  follows  into  the  Lake 
of  Ennerdale :  on  issuing  from  the  Lake  it  changes 
its  name,  and  is  called  the  End,  Eyne,  or  Enna,  It 
falls  into  the  sea  a  little  below  Egremont. 


34 


The  day  would  he  a  very  festival, 
And  those  two  bells  of  ours,  which  there  you  see 
Hanging  in  the  open  air — but,  O  good  Sir! 
This  is  sad  talk — they'll  never  sound  for  him, 
Living  or  dead ! — When  last  we  heard  of  hira 
He  was  in  slavery  among  the  Moors 
Upon  the  Barbary  coast — 'Twas  not  a  little 
That  would  bring  down  his  spirit,  and,  no  doubt, 
Before  it  ended  in  his  Death,  the  Lad 
Was  sadly  cross'd. — Poor  Leonard !  when  we 

parted, 
He  took  me  by  the  hand  and  said  to  me, 
If  ever  the  day  came  when  he  was  rich 
He  would  return.,  and  on  his  Father's  Land 
He  would  grow  old  among  us. 

LEONARD. 

If  that  day 
Should  come,  'twould  needs  be  a  glad  day  for 

him ; 
He  would  himself,  no  doubt,  be  as  happy  then 
As  any  that  should  meet  him— 

PRIEST. 

Happy,  Sir! — 


LEONARD. 

You  said  "his  kindred  al^  were  in  their  graves, 
And  that  he  had  one  Brother — 


■■-. 


35 

PRIEST. 

That  is  but 
A  fellow  tale  of  sorrow !     From  his  youth 
James,  though  not  sickly,  yet  was  delicate, 
And  Leonard  being  always  by  his  side   . 
Had  done  so  many  offices  about  him, 
That,  though  he  was  not  of  a  timid  nature, 
Yet  still  the  spirit  of  a  Mountain-boy 
In  him  was  somewhat  check'd,  and  when  his 

Brother 
Was  gone  to  sea  and  he  was  left  alone, 
The  little  colour  that  he  had  was  soon 
Stolen  from  his  cheek,  he  droop 'd,  and  pin'd, 

and  pin'd : — 

LEONARD. 

But  these  are  all  the  graves  of  full  grown  men! 

PRIEST. 

Aye,  Sir,  that  pass  M  away;  we  took  him  to  us: 
He  was  the  child  of  all  the  dale — he  liv'd 
Three  months  with  one,  and  six  months  with 

another, 
And  wanted  neither  food,  nor  clothes,  nor  love, 
And  many,  many  happy  days  were  his : 
But,  whether  blithe  or  sad,  'tis  my  belief 
His  absent  Brother  still  was  at  his  heart. 
And,  when  he  liv'd  beneath  our  roof,  we  found 


se 


(A  practice  till  this  time  unknown  to  him) 
That  often,  rising  from  his  bed  at  night, 
He  in  his  sleep  would  walk  about,  and  sleeping, 
He  sought  his  Brother  Leonard — You  are 

mov'd ! 
Forgive  me,  Sir !  before  I  spoke  to  vou, 
I  judg'd  you  most  unkindly. 

LEONARD. 

But  this  youth  !* 
How  did  he  die  at  last? 

PRIEST. 

One  sweet  May  morning, 
It  will  be  twelve  years  since  when  spring  returns, 
He  had  gone  forth  among  the  new-dropp'd 

lambs, 
With  two  or  three  companions  whom  it  chanced 
Some  further  business  summon'd  to  a  house 
Which  stands  at  the  Dale-head.     James,  tir'd 

perhaps, 
Or,  from  some  other  cause,  remain'd  behind. 
You  see  yon  precipice- — it  almost  looks 
Like  some  vast  building  made  of  many  crags, 
And  in  the  midst  is  one  particular  rock 
That  rises  like  a  column  from  the  vale, 
Whence  by  our  Shepherds  it  iscall'd,  the  Pillar, 
James,  pointing  to  its  summit,  over  which 


37 


They  all  had  purpos'd  to  return  together, 
Inform 'd  them,  that  he  there  would  wait  for 

them : 
They  parted,  and  his  comrades  pass'd  that  way 
Some  two  hours  after,  but  they  did  not  find 

him 
At  the  appointed  place,  a  circumstance 
Of  which  they  took  no  heed  •  but  one  of  them, 
Going  by  chance,  at  night,  into  the  house 
Which  at  this  time  was  James's  home,  there 

learn' d 
That  nobody  had  seen  him  all  that  day : 
The  morning  came,  and  still,  he  was  unheard 

of. 
The  neighbours  were  alarm'd,  and  to  the  Brook 
Some  went,  and  some  towards  the  Lake;  ere 

noon 
They  found  him  at  the  foot  of  that  same  rock 
Dead,   and  with  mangled  limbs.     The  third 

day  after 
I  buried  him,  poor  lad,  and  there  he  lies ! 

LEONARD. 

And  that  then  is  his  grave ! — Before  his  death 
You  said  that  he  saw  many  happy  Years? 

PRIEST. 

Aye,  that  he  did — 
Vol.  II.  D  2 


38 

LEONARD. 

And  all  went  well  with  him— 

PRIEST. 

If  he  had  one,  the  lad  had  twenty  homes. 

LEONARD. 

And  you  believe  then  that  his  mind  was  easy — 

PRIEST. 

YeSj  long  before  he  died,  he  found  that  time^ 
Is  a  true  friend  to  sorrow;  and  unless 
His  thoughts  were  turn'd  on  Leonard's  luck- 
less fortune 
He  talked  about  him  with  a  cheerful  love, 

LEONARD. 

He  could  not  come  to  an  unhallowed  end  ? 

PRIEST. 

Nay,  God  forbid,!  You  recollect  I  mention'd 
A  habit  which  disquietude  and  grief 
Had  brought  upon  him,  and  we.  all  conjectur'd 
That,  as  the  day  was  warm,  he  had  lain  down 
Upon  the  grass,  and,  waiting  for  his  comrades 
He  there  had  fallen  asleep,  that  in  his  sleep 
He  to  the  margin  of  the  precipice 


S9 


Had  walk'd,  and  from  the  summit  had  fallen 

headlong ; 
And  so  no  doubt  he  perish' d:   At  the  time, 
We  guess,  that  in  his  hands  he  must  have  had 
His  Shepherd's  staff;  for  mid- way  in  the  cliff 
It  had  been  caught,  and  there  for  many  years 
It  hung— and  moulder 'd  there. 

The  Priest  here  ended — 
The  -Stranger  would  have  thank'd  him,  but  he 

felt 
Tears  rushing  in:  Both  left  the  spotin  silence, 
And  Leonard,  when  they  reach'd  the  church- 
yard gate, 
As  the  Priest  lifted  up  the  latch,  turn'd  round, 
And,  looking  at  the  grave,   he  said,     "My 

Brother!" 
The  Vicar  did  not  hear  the  words :  And  now, 
Pointing  towards  the  Cottage,  he  entreated 
That  Leonard  would  partake  his  homely  fare: 
The  other  thank'd  him  with  a  fervent  voice* 
But  added,  that,  the  evening  being  calm, 
He  would  pursue  his  journey.    So  they  parted. 

It  was  not  long  ere  Leonard  reach'd  a  grove 
That  overhung  the  road;    he  there  stopp'd 

short, 
And,  sitting  down  beneath  the  trees,  review'd 
All  that  the  Priest  had  said:  His  early  years 


40 


Were  with  him  in  his  heart :    His  cherish'd 

hopes, 
And  thoughts  which  had  been  his  an  hour  be- 
fore, 
All  press'd  on  him  with  such  a  weight,  that 

now, 
This  vale,  where  he  had  been  so  happy,  seem'd 
A  place  in  which  he  could  not  bear  to  live : 
So  he  relinquish' d  all  his  purposes. 
He  traveled  on  to  Egremont;  and  thence, 
That  night,  address'd  a  letter  to  the  Priest, 
Reminding  him,  of  what  had  pass'd  between 

them. 
And  adding,  with  a  hope  to  be  forgiven, 
That  it  was  from  the  weakness  of  his  heart, 
He  had  not  dared  to  tell  him,  who  he  was. 


This  done,  he  went  on  shipboard,  and  is  now 
A  Seaman,  a  grey-headed  Mariner. 


41 


ELLEN  ERWIN, 


OR    THE 


BRdES   of  KIRTLE.* 


FAIR  Ellen  Irwin,  when  she  sate 
Upon  the  Braes  of  Kirtle, 
Was  lovely  as  a  Grecian  Maid 
Adorned  with  wreaths  of  myrtle. 
Young  Adam  Bruce  beside  her  lay* 
And  there  did  they  beguile  the  day 
With  love  and  gentle  speeches, 
Beneath  the  budding  beeches. 


*  The  Kirtle  k  a  river  in  the  southern  part  of  Scot- 
land, on  whose  banks  the  events  here  related  took 
place. 


42 


From  many  Knights  and  many  Squires 
The  Bruce  had  been  selected, 
And  Gordon,  fairest  of  them  all, 
By  Ellen  was  rejected. 
Sad  tidings  to  that  noble  Youth  ! 
For  it  may  be  proclaim'd  with  truth,. 
If  Bruce  hath  lov'd  sincerely, 
The  Gordon  loves  as  dearly. 

But  what  is  Gordon's  beauteous  face  ? 
And  what  are  Gordon's  Crosses 
To  them  who  sit  by  Kirtle's  Braes 
Upon  the  verdant  mosses  ? 
Alas  that  ever  he  was  born ! 
The  Gordon,  coucli'd  behind  a  thorn, 
Sees  them  and  their  caressing, 
Beholds  them  bless'd  and  blessing. 


Proud  Gordon  cannot  bear  the  thoughts 
That  through  his  brain  are  travelling, 
And,  starting  up,  at  Bruce's  heart 
He  launched  a  deadly  jav'lin ! 
Fair  Ellen  saw  it  when  it  came, 
And,  stepping  forth  to  meet  the  same, 
Did  with  her  body  cover 
The  Youth  her  chosen  lover. 


43 


And,  falling  into  Brace's  arms, 
Thus  died  the  beauteous  Ellen, 
Thus  from  the  heart  of  her  true-love 
The  mortal  spear  repelling. 
And  Bruce,  as  soon  as  he  had  slain 
The  Gordon,  saiFd  away  to  Spain, 
/And  fought  with  rage  incessant 
Against  the  Moorish  Crescent. 

But  many  days,  and  many  months, 
And  many  years  ensuing, 
This  wretched  Knight  did  vainly  seek 
The  death  that  he  was  wooing : 
So  coming  back  across  the  wave, 
Without  a  groan  on  Ellen's  grave 
His  body  he  extended, 
And  there  his  sorrow  ended. 


Now  ye  who  willingly  have  heard 
The  tale  I  have  been  telling, 
May  in  Kirkonnel  church-yard  view 
The  grave  of  lovely  Ellen : 
By  Ellen's  side  the  Bruce  is  laid, 
And  for  the  stone  upon  his  head, 
May  no  rude  hand  deface  it, 
And  its  forlorn  Hie  jacet. 


44 


Strange  fits  of  passion  I  have  known, 
And  I  will  dare  to  tell, 
But  in  the  lover's  ear  alone, 
What  once  to  me  befel. 


When  she  I  loVd,  was  strong  and  gay 
And  like  a  rose  in  June, 
I  to  her  cottage  bent  my  way 
Beneath  the  evening  moon. 


Upon  the  moon  I  fix'd  my  eye, 

All  over  the  wide  lea, 

My  horse  trudg'd  on,  and  we  drew  nigh 

Those  paths  so  dear  to  me. 


45 


And  now  we  reach'd  the  orchard  plot, 
And  as  we  climb'd  the  hill, 
Towards  the  roof  of  Lucy's  cot 
The  moon  descended  still. 


In  one  of  those  sweet  dreams  I  slept, 
Kind  Nature's  gentlest  boon ! 
And  all  the  while,  my  eyes  I  kept 
On  the  descending  moon. 


My  horse  mov'd  on ;  hoof  after  hoof 
He  rais'd,  and  never  stopp'd: 
When  down  behind  the  cottage  roof 
At  once  the  Planet  dropp'd. 


What  fond  and  wayward  thoughts  will  slide 

Into  a  Lover's  head — 

"  O  Mercy!"  to  myself  I  cried, 

"  If  Lucy  should  be  dead!" 


Vol.  II.  E 


46 


SONG. 


SHE  dwelt  among  th'  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  wer-e  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  Violet  by  a  mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye! — 

fair,  as  a  Star  when  only  one 
Js  shining  in  the  sky ! 

She  liv* d  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceas?d  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  Grave,  and  Oh ! 

The  difference  to  me. 


41 


A  SLUMBER  did  my  spirit  seal, 

I  had  no  human  fears  : 
She  seem'd  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 


No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force 
She  neither  hears  nor  sees; 

RolPd  round  in  earths  diurnal  course 
With  rocks  and. stones  and  trees! 


48 


THE 


WATERFALL  and  the  EGLANTINE. 


"  BEGONE  thou  fond  presumptuous  Elf," 

Exclaim'd  a  thundering  Voice, 

"  Nor  dare  to  thrust  thy  foolish  self 

"  Between  me  and  my  choice}" 

A  falling  Water  swoln  with  snows 

Thus  spake  to  a  poor  Briar-rose, 

That  all  bespatter'd  with  his  foam, 

And  dancing  high,  and  dancing  low, 

Was  living,  as  a  child  might  know, 

In  an  unhappy  home. 

"  Dost  Thou  presume  my  course  to  block  ? 

"Off!  off!  or,  puny  Thing! 

"  I'll  hurl  thee  headlong  with  the  rock 

"  To  which  thy  fibres  cling." 

The  flood  was  tyrannous  and  strong; 

The  patient  Briar  suffer'd  long, 


49 


Nor-  did  he  utter  groan  or  sigh, 
Hoping  the  danger  would  be  pass?dr 
But  seeing  no  relief,  at  last 
He  ventur'd  to  reply. 


*  Ah !   (said  the  Briar)  Blame  me  not ! ' 
Why  should  we  dwell  in  strife? 
We  who  in  this >  our  natal  spot, 
Gnce  liv'd  a  happy  life ! 
You  stirr'd  me  on  my  rocky  bed,— 
What  pleasure  thro'  my  veins  you  spread? 
The  summer  long  from  day  to  day 
My  leaves  you  freshen'd  and  bedew'dj , 
Nor  was  it  common  gratitude 
That  did  your  cares  repay. 


'  When  Spring  came  on,  with  bud  and  bell^ 

Among  these  rocks  did  I 

Before  you  hang  my  wreath,  to  tell 

That  gentle  days  were  nigh ! 

And  in  the  sultry  summer  hours 

I  sheltered  you  with  leaves  and  flowers; 

And  in  my  leaves,  now  shed  and  gone, 

The  linnet  lodg'd,  and  for  us  two 

Chaunted  his-pretty  songs,  when  you- 

Had  little  voice  or  none. 

Vol.  II.  E2 


50 


*  But  now  proud  thoughts  arc  in  your  breast- 

What  grief  is  mine  you  see ; 

Ah !  would  you  think,  ev*n  yet  how  blest 

Together  we  might  be ! 

Though  of  both  leaf  and  flower  bereft> 

Some  ornaments  to  me  are  left — 

Rich  store  of  scarlet  hips  is  mine,. 

With  which  I  in  my  humble  way 

Would  deck  you  many  a  Winter'i  day 

A  happy  Eglantine !.' 


What  more  he  said^  I  cannot  tell : 

The  stream  came  thundering  down  the  dell 

And  gallop'd  loud  and  fast; 

I  listen'd,  nor  aught  else  could  hear, 

The  Briar  quak'd,  and  much  I  fear, 

Those  accents  were  his  last. 


51 


THI 


OAK  and  the  BROOM, 

A    PASTORAL.. 


HIS  simple  truths  did  Andrew  glean 

Beside  the  babbling  rills ; 

A  careful  student  he  had  been; 

Among  the  woods  and  hills. 

One  winter's  night  when  thro'  the  trees 

The  wind  was  thundering)  on  his  knees 

His  youngest  born  did  Andrew  hold : 

And  while  the  rest,  a  ruddy  quire, 

Were  seated  round  their  blazing  fire, 

This  Tale  the  Shepherd  told.. 

c  I  saw  a  crag,  a  lofty  stone 

*  As  ever  tempest  beat ! 

'  Out  of  its  head  an  Oak  had  grown, 

f  A  Broom  out  of  its  feet. 


52 


*  The  time  was  March,  a  chearful  noon^— 
'  The  thaw- wind  with  the  breath  of  June 

'  Breath'd  gently  from  the  warm  South-west}- 
*- When  in  a  voice  sedate  with  age 
6  This  Oak,  half  giant  and  half  sage,. 

*  His  neighbour  thus  address'd. 

"  Eight  weary  weeks*  thro'  rock  and  clay, 

u  Along  this  mountain's  edge 

"  The  frost  hath  wrought  both  night  and  day, 

**  Wedge  driving  after  wedge. 

**  Look  up,  and  think,  above  your  head- 

<i  What  trouble  surely  will  be  bred; 

**  Last  night  I  heard  a  crash — 'tis  true 

"  The  splinters  took  another  road 

"  I  see  them  yonder — what  a  load 
■-'  For  such  a  Thing  as  you  J 

"  You  are  preparing  as  before 

"  To  deck  your  slender  shape; 

"  And  yet,  just  three  years  back — no  more — 

u  You  had  a  strange  escape ! 

"  Down  from  yon  cliff  a  fragment  broke, 

"  It  came,  you  know,  with  fire  and  smoks, 

"  And  hither  did  it  bend  its -way: 

"  This  pond'rous  block  was  caught  by  me, 

°  And  o'er  your  head,  as  you  maysee, 

•*  Tis  hanging  to  thisu*ay. 


5S 


"  The  Thing  had  better  been  asleep, 

"  Whatever  thing  it  were, 

"  Or  Breeze,  or  Bird,  or  fleece  of  Sheep 

"  That  first  did  plant  you  there. 

"  For  you,  and  your  green  twigs,  decoy 

*"  The  little  witless  Shepherd-boy 

"  To  come  and  slumber  in  your  bower; 

"  And  trust  me,  on  some  sultry  noon, 

"  Both  you  and  he,  Heaven  knows  how  soon 

••  Will  perish  in  one  hour. 


*<  From  me  this  friendly  warning  take"— 
> — The  Broom  began  to  doze, 
And  thus  to  keep  herself  awake 
Did  gently  interpose. 

*  My  thanks  for  your  discourse  are  due; 

*  That  it  is  true,  and  more  than  true, 

*  I  know,  and  I  have  known  it  long : 
'  Frail  is  the  bond  by  which  we  hold 

*  Our  being,  be  we  young  or  old, 

f  Wise,  foolish,  weak,  or  strong, — < 


'  Disasters,  do  the  best  we  can, 
'  Will  reach  both  Great  and  Small; 
i  And  he  is  oft  the  wisest  man, 
*  Who  is  not  wise  at  all* 


5* 


*  For  me,  why  should  I  wish  to  roamf 

*  This  spot  is  my  paternal  home, 

*  It  is  my  pleasant  Heritage ; 

*  My  Father  many  a  happy  year 

i  Here  spread  his  careless  blossoms*  here- 
'  Attain'd  a  good  old  age. 

6  Even  such  as  his- may  be  my  lot: 

*  What  cause  have  I  to  haunt 

'  My  heart  with  terrors?  Am  I  not 

*  In  truth  a  favour'd.  Plant! 

*  The  Spring  for  me  a  garland  weaves^ 
**  Of  yellow  flowers  and  verdant  leaves, 

*  And,  when  the  Frost  is  in  the  sky, 

*  My  branchesare  so  fresh  and  gay 

'  That  You- might  look  on  me  and  say 
'-This  Plant  can  never  die. 

*  The  Butterfly  all  green- and  gold, 

*  To  me  hath  often  flown, 

*  Here  in  my  Blossoms  to  behold 
(  Wings  lovely  as  his  own. 

'  When  grass  is  chill  with  sain  of  dew, 

*  Beneath  my  shade  the  mother  ewe 

*  Lies  with  her  infant  lamb ;  I  see 

'  The  love,  they  to  each  other  make, 
'  And  the  sweet  joy,  which  they  partake*- 
cTt  is  a  joy  tome.' 


$5 


Her  voice  was  blithe,  her  heart  was  light; 
The  Broom  might  have  pursued 
Her  speech,  until  the  stars  of  night 
Their  journey  had  renewed. 
-But  in  the  branches  of  the  Oak 
Two  Ravens  now  began  to  croak 
Their  nuptial  song,  a  gladsome  air; 
And  to  her  own  green  bower  the  breeze 
~That  instant  brought  two  stripling  Bees 
To  feed  and  murmur  there. 

One  night  the  Wind  came  from  the  North 

And  blew  a  furious  blast, 

At  break  of  day  I  ventur'd  forth 

And  near  the  cliff  I  pass'd: 

The  storm  had  fallen  upon  the  Oak  ' 

And  struck  him  with  a  mighty  stroke, 

And  whirl'd,  and  whirl'd  him  far  away; 

And  in  one  hospitable  Cleft 

The  little  careless  Broom  was  left 

To  live  for  many  a  day. 


SB 


LUCY  GRAY. 


OFT  had  I  heard  of  Lucy  Gray, 
And  when  I  cross'd  the  Wild, 
I  chanc'd  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  Child. 

N6  mate  no  comrade,  Lucy  knew; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  Moor, 
The  sweetest  Thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door ! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  Fawn  at  play, 
The  Hare  upon  the  green ; 
But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night, 
"  You  to  the  town  must  go, 
"  And  take  a  lanthern,  Child,  to  light 
"  Your  mother  thro*  the  snow." 


$1 


*  That,  Father!  will  I  gladly  do; 

*  'Tis  scarcely  afternoon— 

1  The  Minster-clock  has  just  struck  Two, 
1  And  yonder  is  the  Moon ! 

At  this  the  Father  rais'd  his  hook 
And  snapp'd  a  faggot-band ; 
He  plied  his  work,  and  Lucy  took 
The  lanthern  in  her  hand: 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe ; 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powd'ry  snow 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time, 
She  wander'd  up  and  down, 
And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb, 
But  never  reach'd  the  Town. 

The  wretched  Parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  rar  and  wide ; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  day -break  on  a  hill  they  stood 
That  overlook'd  the  Moor ;  ■ 

And  thence  they  saw  the  Bridge  of  Wood 
A  furlong  from  their  door : 

Vol.  II.  F 


58 


And  now  they  homeward  tqrn'd,  and  cry'd 
u  In  Heaven  we  all  shall  meet!" 
When  in  the  snow  the  Mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downward  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
They  track'd  the  footmarks  small ; 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn-hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone- wall ; 

And  then  an  open  field  they  cross'd, 
The  marks  were  still  the  same; 
They  track'd  them  on,  nor  ever  lost, 
And  to  the  Bridge  they  came. 

They  follow'd  from  the  snowy  bank 
The  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank, 
And  further  there  were  none. 

Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  Child, 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  Wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 


59 
THE    IDLE  SHEPHERD   BOYS; 

OR 

DUNGEON-GILL  FORCE* 


THE  valley  rings  with  mirth  and  joy; 

Among  the  hills  the  Echoes  play 

A  never,  never  ending  song 

To  welcome  in  the  May. 

The  Magpie  chatters  with  delight; 

The  mountain  Raven's  youngling  Brood 

Have  left  the  Mother  and  the  Nest, 

And  they  go  rambling  east  and  west 

In  search  of  their  own  food, 

Or  thro'  the  glittering  vapors  dart 

In  very  wantonness  of  heart. 

Beneath  a  rock,  upon  the  grass, 
Two  Boys  are  sitting  in  the  sun ; 
It  seems  they  have  no  work  to  do, 
Or,  that  their  work  is  done. 

♦Gill,  in  the  dialect  of  Cumberland  and  Westmore- 
land, is  a  short  and  for  the  most  part  a  steep  narrow 
valley,  with  a  stream  running  through  it.  Force  is 
the  word  universally  empleyed  in  thesi  dialects  for 
Water-fall. 


60 


On  pipes  of  sycamore  they  play 

The  fragments  of  a  Christmas  Hymn, 

Or,   with  that  plant  which  in  our  dale 

We  call  Stag-horn,  or  Fox's  tail, 

Their  rusty  hats  they  trim  : 

And  thus  as  happy  as  the  day 

Those  Shepherds  wear  the  time  away. 

III. 

Along  the  river's  stony  marge 

The  sand-lark  chaunts  a  joyous  song ; 

The  thrush  is  busy  hi  the  wood, 

And  carols  loud  and  strong. 

A  thousand  lambs  are  on  the  rocks, 

All  newly  born !  both  earth  and  sky 

Keep  jubilee,  and  more  than  all, 

Those  boys  with  their  green  Coronal, 

They  never  hear  the  Cry, 

That  plaintive  Cry !  which  up  the  hill 

Comes  from  the  depth  of  Dungeon  Gill. 

IV. 

Said  Walter  (leaping  from  the  ground) 
"  Down  to  the  stump  of  yon  old  Yew 
"  I'll  run  with  you  a  race." — No  more — 
Away  the  Shepherds  flew. 
They  leapt,  they  ran,  and  when  they  came 
Right  opposite  to  Dungeon-Gill, 
Seeing,  that  he  should  lose  the  prize, 
"  Stop!"  to  his  comrade  Walter  cries: — 
James  stopp'd  with  no  good  will : 
Said  Walter  then,  "  Your  task  is  here, 
"  'Twill  keep  you  working  half  a  year : 


61 


"  Till  you  have  crossM  where  I  shall  cross, 

"  Say  that  you'll  neither  sleep  nor  eat." 

James  proudly  took  him  at  his  word, 

But  did  not  like  the  feat: 

It  was  a  spot  which  you  may  see 

If  ever  you  to  Langdale  go : 

Into  a  chasm  a  mighty  block 

Hath  fallen,  and  made  a  bridge  of  rock ; 

The  gulph  is  deep  below, 

And  in  a  bason  black  and  small 

Receives  a  lofty  Waterfall. 

VL 

With  staff  in  hand  across  the  cleft 
The  Challenger  began  his  march ; 
And  now,  all  eyes  and  feet,  hath  gain'd 
The  middle  of  the  arch : 
When  list !  he  hears  a  piteous  moan- 
Again  !  his  heart  within  him  dies — 
His  pulse  is  stopp'd,  his  breath  is  lost, 
He  totters,  pale  as  any  ghostr 
And,  looking  down,  he  spies 
A  Lamb,  that  in  the  pool  is  pent 
Within  that  black  and  frightful  rent. 

VII. 

The  lamb  had  slipp'd  into  the  stream, 
And  safe,  without  a  bruise  or  wound, 
The  cataract  had  borne  him  down. 
Into  the  gulph  profound. 
Vol.  II.  F2 


62 


His  dam  had  seen  him  when  he  fell, 

She  saw  him  down  the  torrent  borne ; 

And  while  with  all  a  mother's  love 

She  from  the  lofty  rocks  above 

Sent  forth  a  Cry  forlorn, 

The  Lamb,  still  swimming  round  and  round 

Made  answer  to  that  plaintive  sound. 

VIII. 

When  he  had  learnt  what  thing  it  was, 
That  sent  this  rueful  cry ;  I  ween, 
The  Boy  recover' d  heart,  and  told 
The  sight  which  he  had  seen. 
Both  gladly  now  deferr'd  their  task : 
Nor  was  there  wanting  other  aid — 
A  Poet,  one  who  loves  the  brooks 
Far  better  than  the  Sages'  books, 
By  chance  had  thither  stray 'd; 
And  there  the  helpless  Lamb  he  found 
By  those  huge  rocks  encompass'd  round. 

IX. 

He  drew  it  gently  from  the  pool, 

And  brought  it  forth  into  the  light: 

The  Shepherds  met  him  with  his  charge 

An  unexpected  sight ! 

Into  their  arms  the  Lamb  they  took, 

Said  they,  "  He's  neither  maim'd  nor  scarr'd ;' 

Then  up  the  steep  ascent  they  hied 

And  placed  him  at  his  Mother's  side ; 

And  gently  did  the  Bard 

Those  idle  Shepherd-boys  upbraid, 

And  bade  them  better  mind  their  trade. 


63 


*T1S  said,  that  some  have  died  for  Love: 
And  here  and  there  a  church-yard  grave  is  found 
In  the  cold  North's  unhallowM  ground, 
Because  the  wretched  man  himself  had  slain, 
His  Love  was  such  a  grievous  pain. 
And  there  is  one  whom  I  five  years  have  known ; 
He  dwells  alone 
Upon  Helvellyn's  side* 

He  loved ! The  pretty  Barbara  died, 

And  thus  he  makes  his  moan : 

Three  years  had  Barbara  in  her  grave  been  laid 

When  thus  his  moan  he  made. — 

"  Oh !  move  thou  Cottage  from  behind  that 

Oak 
Or  let  the  aged  tree  uprooted  lie, 
That  in  some  other  way  yon  smoke 
May  mount  into  the  sky ! 
The  clouds  pass  on;   they  from  the  Heavens 

depart. 
I  look — the  sky  is  empty  space; 
I  know  not  what  I  trace ; 
But  when  I  cease  to  look,  my  hand  is  on  my 

heart 


64 


"  O !   what  a  weight  is  in  these  shades !   Ye 

leaves, 
When  will  that  dying  murmur  be  suppress'd? 
Your  sound  my  heart  of  peace  bereaves, 
It  robs  ray  heart  of  rest. 
Thou  Thrush,  that  singest  loud  and  loud  and 

free, 
Into  yon  row  of  willows  flit, 
Upon  that  alder  sit; 
Or  sing  another  songj  or  chuse  another  tree. 

"  Roll  back,  sweet  rill !  back  to  thy  mountain 

bounds, 
And  there  for  ever  be  thy  waters  chain' d! 
For  thou  dost  haunt  the  air  with  sounds 
That  cannot  be  sustain'd; 
If  still  beneath  that  pine-tree?s  ragged  bough 
Headlong  yon  waterfall  must  come, 
Oh!  let  it  then  be  dumb!  — 
Be  any  thing,  sweet  rill,  but  that  which  thou 

art  now. 


**  Thou-  Eglantine  whose  arch  so  proudly 

towers, 
(Even  like  a  rainbow  spanning  half  the  vale) 
Thou  one  fair  shrub,  Oh !    shed  th_y  flowers, 
And  stir  not  in  the  gale; 


6i 


For  thus  to  see  thee  nodding  in  the  air, 
To  see  thy  arch  thus  stretch  and  bend, 
Thus  rise  and  thus  descend, 
Disturbs  me,  till  the  sight  is  more  than  I  can 
bear." 


The  man  who  makes  this  feverish  complaint 
Is  one  of  giant  stature,  who  could  dance 
Equipp'd  from  head  to  foot  in  iron  mail. 
Ah  gentle  Love !  if  ever  thought  was  thine 
To  store  up  kindred  hours  for  me,  thy  face 
Turn  from  me,  gentle  Love,  nor  let  me  walk 
Within  the  sound  of  Emma's  voice,  or  know 
Such  Happiness  as  I  have  known  to-day. 


£6 


POOR   SUSAN. 


AT  the  corner  of  Woodstreet,  when  day-light 

appears, 
There's  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung 

for  three  years : 
Poor  Susan  has  pass'd  by  the  spot  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  bird. 

'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment !    what  ails  her  ? 

She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees ! 
Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury 

glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of 

Cheapside ! 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the 

dale, 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripp'd  with  her 

pail, 
And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  only  one  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves ! 


«T 


She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  Heaven ;  but 

they  fade, 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade ! 
The  stream  will*  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will 

not  rise, 
And  the  colours  have  all  pass'd  away  from  her 

eyes ! 

Poor  Outcast !    return — to  receive  thee  once 

more 
The  house  of  thy  Father  will  open  its  door, 
And  thou  once  again,  in  thy  plain  russet  gown, 
May'st  hear  the.Thrush  sing  from  a  tree  of  its 

own. 


€8 


INSCRIPTION 

For  the  Spot  where  the  Hermitage  stood  on 

SL  Herbert's  Island,  Derwent  Water. 


IF  thou  in  the  dear  love  of  some  one  friend 
Hast  been  so  happy,  that  thou  know'st  what 

thoughts 
Will,  sometimes,  in  the  happiness  of  love 
Make  the  heart  sink,  then  wilt  thou  reverence 
This  quiet  spot. — St.  Herbert  hither  came, 
And  here,  for  many  -seasons,  from  the  world 
Remov'd,  and  the  affections  of  the  world, 
He  dwelt  in  solitude.     He  living  here, 
This  island's  sole  inhabitant !  had  left 
A  Fellow-labourer,  whom  the  good  Manlov'd 
As  his  own  soul ;  and  when  within  his  cave 
Alone  he  knelt  before  the  Crucifix, 
While  o'er  the  lake  the  cataract  of  Lodore 
Peal'd  to  his  orisons,  and  when  he  pae'd 
Along  the  beach  of  this  small  isle  and  thought 
Of  his  Companion,  he  had  pray'd  that  both 
Might  die  in  the  same  moment.    Nor  in  vain 
So  pray'd  he: — as  our  Chronicles  report, 
Though  here  the  Hermit  number'd  his  last  days, 
Far  from  St.  Cuthbert  his  beloved  friend, 
Those  holy  men  both  died  in  the  same  hour. 


INSCRIPTION 

For  the  House  (an  Outhouse)  on  the  Island 
at  Grasmere. 


RUDE  is  this  Edifice,  and  Thou  hast  seen 
Buildings,  albeit  rude,  that  have  maintain'd 
Proportions  more  harmonious,  and  approach'd 
To  somewhat  of  a  closer  fellowship 
With  the  ideal  grace.     Yet  as  it  is 
Do  take  it  in  good  part ;  for  he,  the  poor 
Vitruvious  of  our  village,  had  no  help 
From  the  great  city;  never  On  the  leaves 
Of  red  Morocco  folio  saw  display'd 
The  skeletons  and  pre-existing  ghosts 
Of,  Beauties  yet  unborn,  the  rustic  Box, 
Snug  Cot,  with  Coach-house,  Shed,  and  Her- 
mitage. 
It  is  a  homely  pile,  yet  to  these  walls 
The  heifer  comes  in  the  snow-storm,  and  here 
The  new-dropp'd  lamb  finds  shelter  from  the 
wind. 

Vol.  II.  G 


70 


And  hither  does  one  Poet  sometimes  row 
His  pinnace,  a  small  vagrant  barge,  up-piled 
With  plenteous  store  of  heath  and  wither'd 

fern, 
A  lading  which  he  with  his  sickle  cuts 
Among  the  mountains,  and  beneath  this  roof 
He  makes  his  summer  couch,  and  here  at  noon 
Spreads  out  his  limbs,  while,  yet  unborn,  the 

sheep, 
Panting  beneath  the  burthen  of  their  wool, 
Lie  round  him,  even  as  if  they  were  a  part 
Of  his  own  household:  nor,  while  from  his  bed 
He  through  that  door-place  looks  towards  the 

lake 
And  to  the  stirring  breezes,  does  he  want 
Creations  lovely  as  the  work  of  sleep, 
Fair  sights,  and  visions  of  romantic  joy. 


71 


TO   A   SEXTON. 


Let  thy  wheel-barrow  alone  : 

Wherefore,  Sexton,  piling  still 

In  thy  bone-house  bone  on  bone  ? 

'Tis  already  like  a  hill 

In  a  field  of  battle  made, 

Where  three  thousand  skulls  are  laid. 

■ These  died  in  peace  each  with  the  other, 

Father,  Sister,  Friend,  and  Brother. 


Mark  the  spot  to  which  I  point! 
From  this  platform  eight  feet  square 
Take  not  even  a  finger-joint: 
Andrew's  whole  fire-side  is  there. 
Here,  alone,  before  thine  eyes, 
Simon's  sickly  daughter  lies, 
From  weakness,  now,  and  pain  defended, 
Whom  he  twenty  winters  tended. 


12 


Look  but  at  the  gardener's  pride,. 

How  he  glories,  when  he  sees 

Roses,  lilies,  side  by  side, 

Violets  in  families. 

Ey  the  heart  of  Man,  his  tears. 

By  his  hopes  and  by  his  fears, 

Thou,  old  Grey-beard !   art  the  Warden 

Of  a  far  superior  garden. 

Thus  then,  each  to  other  dear, 
Let  them  all  in  quiet  lie, 
Andrew  there  and  Susan  here, 
Neighbours  in  mortality. 
And  should  1  live  through  sun  and  rain 
Seven  widow'd  years  without  my  Jane, 
O  Sexton !  do  not  then  remove  her, 
Let  one  grave  hold  the  Lov'd  and  Lover. 


73 


ANDREW  JONES. 


I  hate  that  Andrew  Jones:  He'll  breed 
His  children  up  to  waste  and  pillage. 
I  wish  the  press-gang,  or  the  drum 
With  its  Tantara  sound  would  come, 
And  sweep  him  from  the  village ! 

I  said  not  this  because  he  loves 

Through  the  long  day  to  swear  and  tipple ; 

But  for  the  poor  dear  sake  of  one 

To  whom  a  foul  deed  he  had  done, 

A  friendless  Man,  a  travelling  Cripple ! 


For  this  poor  crawling  helpless  wretch 
Some  horseman  who  was  passing  by, 
A  penny  on  the  ground  had  thrown; 
But  the  poor  Cripple  was  alone 
And  could  not  stoop — no  help  was  nigh* 

Vol.  IL  G  2 


74 


Inch-thick  the  dust  lay  on  the  ground 
For  it  had  long  been  droughty  weather 
So  with  his  staff  the  Cripple  wrought 
Among  the  dust  till  he  had  brought 
The  halfpennies  together. 


It  chancM  that  Andrew  pass'd  that  way 
Just  at  the  time ;  and  there  he  found 
The  Cripple  in  the  mid-day  heat 
Standing  alone,  and  at  his  feet 
He  saw  the  penny  on  the  ground. 


He  stopp'd  and  took  the  penny  up: 
And  when  the  Cripple  nearer  drew, 
Quoth  Andrew,   "  Under  half-a-crown, 
"  What  a  man  finds  is  all  his  own, 
"  And  so  my  friend  good  day  to  you.'* 

And  hence  I  said,  that  Andrew's  boys 
Will  all  be  train'd  to  waste  and  pillage; 
And  wish'd  the  press-gang,  or  the  drum 
With  its  Tantara  sound,  would  come, 
And  sweep  hitn  from  the  village. 


75 


THE 

TWO  THIEVES. 

OR     THE    LAST     STAGE     OF 

AVARICE. 


OH  now  that  the  genius  of  Bewick  were  mine ! 
And  the  skill  which  he  learn'd,  on  the  Banks 

of  the  Tyne; 
When  the  Muses  might  deal  with  me  just  as 

they  chose, 
For  I'd  take  my  last  leave  both  of  verse  and 

of  prose. 

"What  feats  would  I  work  with  my  magical 
hand! 

Book-learning  and  Books  should  be  banish'd 
the  land, 

And  for  hunger  and  thirst,  and  such  trouble- 
some calls, 

Every  ale-house  should  then  have  a  feast  on 
its  walls. 


76 


The  Traveller  would  hang  his  wet  clothes  01 

a  chair, 
Let  them  smoke,  let  them  burn,  not  a  straw 

would  he  care, 
For  the  Prodigal  Son,  Joseph's  Dream  and  his 

Sheaves 
Oh  what  would  they  be  to  my  Tale  of  two 

Thieves! 


little  Dan  is  unbreech'd,    he  is  three  birth 

days  old, 
His  Grandsire  that  age  more  than  thirty  times 

told, 
There's  ninety  good  seasons  of  fair  and  foul 

weather 
Between  them,  and  both  go  a  stealing  together. 

With  chips  is  the  carpenter  strewing  his  floor  ? 
Is  a  cart-load  of  peats  at  an  old  woman's  door? 
Old  Daniel  his  hand  to  the  treasure  will  slide, 
And  his  Grandson's  as  busy  at  work  by  his  side. 

Old  Daniel  begins,  he  stops  short  and  his  eye 
Through  the  lost  look  of  dotage  is  cunning 

and  sly. 
'Tis  a  look  which  at  this  time  is  hardly  his 

own, 
But  tells  a  plain  tale  of  the  days  that  are  flown. 


17 


Dan  once  had  a  heart  which  was  mov'd  by  the 

wires 
Of  manifold  pleasures  and  many  desires : 
And  what  if  he  cherish'd  his  purse  ?  'Twas  no 

more 
Than  treading  a  path  trod  by  thousands  before. 

'Twas  a  path  trod  by  thousands,  but  Daniel  is 
one 

Who  went  something  farther  than  others  have 
gone; 

And  now  with  old  Daniel  you  see  how  it  fares, 

You  see  to  what  end  he  has  brought  his  grey- 
hairs. 


The  pair  sally  forth  hand  in  hand ;  ere  the  sun 
Has  peer'do'er  the  beeches  their  work  is  begun: 
And  yet  into  whatever  sin  they  may  fall,. 
This  Child  but  half  knows  it,  and  that  not  at 
all. 


They  hunt  through  the  street  with  deliberate 

tread, 
And  each  in  his  turn  is  both  leader  and  led ; 
And  wherever  they  carry  their  plots  and  their 

wiles, 
Every  face  in  the  village  is  dimpled  with  smiles. 


78 


Neither  checked  by  the  rich  nor  the  needy 

they  roam, 
For  grey-headed  Dan  has  a  daughter  at  home ; 
Who  will  gladly  repair  all  the  damage  that's 

done, 
And  three,  were  it  ask'd,  would  be  render' d 

for  one. 

Old  Man !  whom  so  oft  I  with  pity  have  ey'd, 
I  love  thee  and  love  the  sweet  boy  at  thy  side : 
Long  yet  mayst  thou  live,  for  a  teacher  we 

see 
That  lifts  up  the  Veil  of  our  Nature  in  Thee. 


73 


A  WHIRL-BLAST  from  behind  the  hill 
Rush'd  o'er  the  wood  with  startling  sound : 
Then  all  at  once  the  air  was  still, 
And  showers  of  hail-stones  patter'd  round. 
Where  leafless  Oaks  tower' d  high  above 
I  sate  within  an  undergrove 
Of  tallest  hollies,   tall  and  green, 
A  fairer  bower  was  never  seen. 
From  year  to  year  the  spacious  floor 
With  wither'd  leaves  is  cover'd  o'er, 
You  could  not  lay  a  hair  between: 
And  all  the  year  the  bower  is  green. 
But  see  I  where'er  the  hail-stones  drop 
The  wither'd  leaves  all  skip  and  hop, 
There's  not  a  breeze— no  breath  of  air — 
Yet  here,  and  there,  and  every  where 
Along  the  floor,  beneath  the  shade 
By  those  embowering  hollies  made, 
The  leaves  in  myriads  jump  and  spring, 
As  if  with  pipes  and  music  rare 
Some  Robin  Good-fellow  were  there, 
And  all  those  leaves  that  jump  and  spring, 
Were  each  a  joyous  living  thing. 

Oh  !  Grant  me  Heaven  a  heart  at  ease 
That  I  may  never  cease  to  rind 
Even  in  appearances  like  these 
Enough  to  nourish  and  to  stir  my  mind ! 


so 

< 

SONG 

FOR    THE 

WANDERING  JEW. 


THOUGH  the  torrents  from  their  fountains 
Roar  down  many  a  craggy  steep, 
Yet  they  find  among  the  mountains 
Resting-places  calm  and  deep. 

Though  almost  with  eagle  pinion 
O'er  the  rocks  the  Chamois  roam, 
Yet  he  has  some  small  dominion 
Which  no  doubt  he  calls  his  home. 

If  on  windy  days  the  Raven 
Gambol  like  a  dancing  skiff, 
Not  the  less  he  loves  his  haven 
On  the  bosom  of  the  cliff. 

Though  the  Sea-horse  in  the  oceaii 
Own  no  dear  domestic  cave; 
Yet  he  slumbers  without  motion 
On  the  calm  and  silent  wave. 

Day  and  night  my  toils  redouble ! 
Never  nearer  to  the  goal, 
Night  and  day,  I  feel  the  trouble, 
Of  the  Wanderer  in  my  soul. 


51 


RUTH. 


WHEN  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate, 
Her  father  took  another  Mate, 
And  so,  not  seven  years  old, 
The  slighted  Child  at  her  own  will 
Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill 
In  thoughtless  freedom  bold. 

And  she  had  made  a  pipe  of  straw 
And  from  that  oaten  pipe  could  draw 
All  sounds  of  winds  and  floods; 
Had  built  a  bower  upon  the  green, 
As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 
An  infant  of  the  woods. 

There  came  a  Youth  from  Georgia's  shore, 

A  military  casque  he  wore 

With  splendid  feathers  drest; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees; 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze 

And  made  a  gallant  crest. 

Vol.  II.  H 


82 


From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung ; 
Ah  no !  he  spake  the  English  tongue 
And  bear  a  Soldier's  name ; 
And  when  America  was  free 
From  battle  and  from  jeopardy 
He  cross  the  ocean  came. 


With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek 
In  finest  tones  the  Youth  could  speak. 
— While  he  was  yet  a  Eoy 
The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun, 
And  streams  that  murmur  as  they  run, 
Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 


He  was  a  lovely  Youth !  I  guess 

The  panther  in  the  wilderness 

Was  not  so  fair  as  he ; 

And  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play, 

No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 

Upon  the  Tropic  sea. 


Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought, 
And  with  him  many  tales  he  brought 
Of  pleasure  and  of  fear; 
Such  tales  as  told  to  any  Maid 
By  such  a  Youth  in  the  green  shade 
Were  perilous  to  hear. 


83 


He  told'  of  Girls,  a  happy  rout, 

Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout, 

Their  pleasant  Indian  Town, 

To  gather  strawberries  all  day  long, 

Returning  with  a  choral  song 

When  day-light  is  gone  down. 


He  spake  of  plants  divine  and  strange 
That  ev'ry  day  their  blossoms  change, 
Ten  thousand  lovely  hues ! 
With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers, 
They  stand  thewonder  of  the  bowers 
From  morn  to  evening  dews. 


He  told  of  the  Magnolia,*  spread 
High  as  a  cloud,  high  over-head ! 
The  Cypress  and  her  spire, 
Of  flowers  §  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 
Cover  a  hundred  leagues,  and  seem 
To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 


*  Magnolia  grandiflora. 

§  The  splendid  appearance  of  these  scarlet  flowers, 
which  are  scattered  with  such  profusion  over  the  hills 
in  the  southern  parts  of  North  America,  is  frequent- 
ly mentioned  by  Bartram  in  his  Travels, 


84 


The  Youth  of  green  Savannahs  spake, 
And  many  an  endless  endless  lake, 
With  all  its  fairy  crowds, 
Of  islands  that  together  lie 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
Among  the  evening  clouds: 

And  then  he  said,  "  how  sweet  it  were 

"  A  fisher  or  a  hunter  there, 

"  A  gardener  in  the  shade, 

"  Still  wandering  with  an  easy  mind, 

"  To  build  a  houshold  fire,  and  find 

*•  A  Home  in  every  glade. 

"  What  days  and  what  sweet  years !  Ah  mc! 

"  Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  thee 

"  So  pass'd  in  quiet  bliss, 

"  And  all  the  while  (said  he)  to  know 

"  That  we  were  in  a  world  of  woe, 

"  On  such  an  earth  as  this !" 


And  then  he  sometimes  interwove 
Dear  thoughts  about  a  father's  love, 
'*  For  there  (said  he)  are  spun 
%  Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties 
"That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes 
"  Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 


85 


w  Sweet  Ruth !  and  could  you  go  with  me, 

"  My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be, 

"  Our  shed  at  night  to  rear; 

"  Or  run,  my  own  adopted  bride, 

"  A  sylvan  huntress  at  my  side, 

"  And  drive  the  flying  deer. 


"Beloved  Ruth!"     No  more  he  said, 
Sweet  Ruth,  alone,  at  midnight  shed 
A  solitary  tear;— - 
She  thought  again— and  did  agree 
With  him  to  sail  across  the  sea, 
And  drive  the  flying  deer.. 


f*  And  now,  as  fitting  is  and  right 

•'  We  in  the  Church  our  faith  will  plight,^ 

"  A  Husband  and  a  Wife." 

Even  so  they  did ,  and  I  may  say, 

That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 

Was  more  than  human  life. 


Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sink, 
Delighted  all.  the  while  to  think, 
That  on  those  lonesome  floods 
And  green  Savannahs  she  should  share 
His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 
His  name  in  the  wild  woods. 
Vol.  II.  Jt  2 


86 


But  as  you  have  before  been  told, 
This  Stripling,  sportive  gay  and  bold, 
And  with  his  dancing  crest, 
So  beautiful,  through  savage  lands 
Had  roam'd  about  with  vagrant  bands 
Of  Indians  in  the  West. 


The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high, 

The  tumult  of  a  Tropic  sky, 

Might  well  be  dangerous  food 

For  him,  a  Youth  to  whom  was  given 

So  much  of  earth,  so  much  of  Heaven, 

And  such  impetuous  blood. 


Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found 

Irregular  in  sight  or  sound 

Did  to  his  mind  impart 

A  kindred  impulse,  seem'd  allied 

To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 

The  workings  of  his  heart. 


Nor  less  to  feed  voluptuous  thought 
The  beauteous  forms  of  Nature  wrought, 
Fair  trees  and  lovely  flowers ; 
The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent, 
The  stars  had  feelings  which  they  sent 
Into  those  magic  bowers. 


87 


Yet  in  his  worst  pursuits  I  ween, 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent : 
For  passions  link'd  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment. 


But  ill  he  livM,  much  evil  saw 
With  men  to  whom  no  better  law 
Nor  better  life  was  known ; 
Deliberately  and  undeceiv'd 
Those  wild  men's  vices  he  received, 
And  gave  them  back  his  own. 

His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 
Were  thus  impair'd,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires; 
A  man  who  without  self  controul 
Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 
Unworthily  admires. 

And  yet  he  with  no  feign'd  delight 
Had  woo'd  the  Maiden,  day  and  night 
Had  lov'd  her,  night  and  morn ! 
What  could  he  less  than  love  a  Maid 
Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  play'd, 
So  kind  and  so  forlorn? 


ss 


But  now  the  pleasant  dream  was  gone, 
No  hope,  no  wish  remainM,  not  one, 
They  sdrr'd  him  now  no  more; 
New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give, 
And  once  again  he  wish'd  to  live, 
As  lawless  as  before. 


Meanwhile,  as  thus  'with  him  it  fared, 
They  for  the  voyage  were  prepared 
And  went  to  the  Sea-shore ; 
But,  when  they  thither  came,  the  Youth 
Deserted  his  poor  Bride,  and  Ruth 
Could  never  find. him  more.. 

God  help  thee,  Ruth! — Such  pains  she  had 

That  she  in  half  a  year  was  mad 

And  in  a  prison  hous'd, 

And  there,  exulting  in  her  wrongs* 

Among  the:  music  of  her  songs 

She  fearfully  carouz'd. 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours- she  knew, 
Nor  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  nor  dew,  i 
Nor  pastimes  of  the  May, 
They  all  were  with  her  in  her  cell, 
And  a  wild  brook  with  cheerful  knell 
Did  o'er  the  pebbles  play,  i 


69 

When  Ruth  three  seasons  thus  had  lain, 
There  came  a  respite  to  her  pain, 
She  from  her  prison  fled; 
But  of  the  Vagrant  none  took  thought, 
And  where  it  lik'd  her  best  she  sought 
Her  shelter  and  her  bread. 


Among  the  fields  she  breath'd  again: 
The  master-current  of  her  brain 
Ran  permanent  and  free, 
And  to  the  pleasant  banks  of  Tone* 
She  took  her  way,  to  dwell  alone 
Undeisthe_greehwood  tree. 


The  engines  of  her  grief,  the  tools 
That  shap'd  her  sorrow,  rocks  and  pools, 
And  airs  that  gently  stir 
The  vernal  leaves,  she  loved  them  still, 
Nor  ever  tax'd  them  with  the  ill 
Which  had  been  done  to  her. 


*  The  Tone  is  a  river  of  Somersetshire  at  no  great 
distance  from  the  Quantock  Hills.  These  hills, 
which  are  alluded  to  a  few  stanzas  below,  are  ex- 
tremely beautiful,  and  in  most  places  richly  cover- 
ed with  coppice  woods* 


90 


A  Bam  her  winter  bed  supplies, 

But  till  the  warmth  of  summer  skies 

And  summer  days  is  gone, 

(And  in  this  tale  we  all  agree) 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  other  home  hath  none 


If  she  is  pressM  by  want  of  food 
She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 
Repairs  to  a  road  side, 
And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place,. 
Where  up  and  down  with  easy  pace 
The  horsemen-travellers,  ride* 


That  oaten  pipe  of  hers  is  mute 
Or  thrown  away,  but  with  a  flute- 
Her  loneliness  she  cheers ; 
This  flute  made  of  a  hemlock  stalky . 
At  evening  in  his  homeward  walk, 
The  Quantock  Woodman  hears. 


I  too  have  pass'd  her  on  the  hills 
Setting  her  little  water-mills 
By  spouts  and  fountains  wild, 
Such  small  machinery  as  she  turn'd' 
Ere  .she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourn'd, 
A  young  and  happy  Child ! 


51 


Farewell !  and  when  thy  $ays  are  told, 

Ill-fated  Ruth !  in  haliow'd  mould 

Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be ; 

For  thee  a  funeral  bell  shall  ring, 

And  all  the  congregation  sing 

A  Christian  Psalm  for  Thee, 


9£ 


LINUS 

Written  with  a  Slate-pencil  upon  a  Stone,  tie  largest 

of  a  Heap  lying  near  a  deserted  Quarry,  upon 

one  of  the  Islands  at  Rjdale, 


Stranger  !  this  hillock  of  mis-shapen  stones 

Is  not  a  ruin  of  the  ancient  time, 

Nor,  as  perchance,  thou  rashly  deem'st,  the 

Cairn 
Of  some  old  British  Chief:  'Tis  nothing  more 
Than  the  rude  embryo  of  a  little  dome 
Or  pleasure-house,  which  was  to  have  been 

built 
Among  the  birch-trees  of  this  rocky  isle. 
But,  as  it  chanc'd,  Sir  William  having  learn'd, 
That  from  the  shore  a  full-grown  man  might 

wade 
And  make  himself  a  freeman  of  this  spot 
At  any  hour  he  chose,  the  Knight  forthwith 
Desisted,  and  the  quarry  and  the  mound 

Are  monuments  of  his  unfinished  task. ■ 

The  block  on  which  these  lines  are  trac'd,  per- 
haps, 


93 


Was  once  selected  as  the  corner  stone 
Of  the  intended  pile,  which  would  have  been 
Some  quaint  odd  play-thing  of  elaborate  skill, 
So  that,  I  guess,  the  linnet  and  the  thrush, 
And  other  little  builders  who  dwell  here, 
Had  wonder'd  at  the  work.     But  blame  him 

not, 
For  old  Sir  William  was  a  gentle  Knight, 
Bred  in  this  vale  to  which  he  appertain'd 
With  all  his  ancestry.     Then  peace  to  him, 
And  for  the  outrage  which  he  had  devis'd, 
Entire  forgiveness. — But  if  thou  art  one 
On  fire  with  thy  impatience  to  become 
An  Inmate  of  these'  mountains,  if  disturb'd 
By  beautiful  conceptions,  thou  hast  hewn 
Out  of  the  quiet  rock  the  elements 
Of  thy  trim  mansion  destin'd  soon  to  blaze 
In  snow-white  splendor,    think  again,   and 

taught 
By  old  Sir  William  and  his  Quarry,  leave 
Thy  fragments  to  the  bramble  and  the  rose ; 
There  let  the  vernal  slow-worm  sun  himself 
And  let  the  red-breast  hop  from  stone  to  stone 


Vol.  II. 


9* 


In  the  School  of  is  a  Tablet  on 

nvhich  are  inscribed,  in  gilt  letter  t,  the  Names  of  the 
several  persons  nvho  have  been  Schoolmasters  there 
since  the  foundation  of  the  School,  *with  the  time  at 
which  they  entered  upon  and  quitted  their  office  Op- 
posite one  of  those  Names  the  Author  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing 

LINES, 


IF  Nature,  for  a  favorite  Child 
In  Thee  hath  temper 'd  so  her  clay., 
That  every  iiour  thy  heart  runs  wild 
Yet  never  once  doth  go  astray, 

Read  o'er  these  Lines;  and  then  review 
This  Tablet,  that  thus  humbly  rears 
In  such  diversity  of  hue 
Its  history  of  two  hundred  years- 

— When  through  this  little  wreck  of  fame, 
Cypher  and  syllable,  thine  eye 
Has  travellM  down  to  Matthew's  name, 
Pause  with  no  common  sympathy. 


95 


And  if  a  sleeping  tear  should  wake, 
Then  be  it  neither  cheek'd  nor  stay'd: 
For  Matthew  a  request  I  make 
Which  for  himself  he  had  not  made.- 

Poor  Matthew,  all  his  frolics  o'er,. 
Is  silent  as  a  standing  pool, 
Far  from  the  chimney's  merry  roar, 
And  murmur  of  the  village  school. 

The  sighs  which  Matthew  heav'd  were  sighs 
Of  one  tir'd  out  with  fun  and  madness ; 
The  tears  which  came  to  Matthew's  eye* 
Were  tears  of  light,  the  oil  of  gladness. 

Yet  sometimes  when  the  secret  cup 
Of  still  and  serious  thought  went  round, 
It  seem'd  as  if  he  nrank  it  up, 
He  felt  with  spirit  so  profound. 

— Thou  soul  of  God's  best  earthly  mould! 
Thou  happy  soul !  and  can  it  be 
That  these  two  words  of  glittering  gold* 
Are  all  that  must  remain  of  Thee? 


36 


THE 


TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS. 


WJE  walk'd  along,  while  bright  and  red 
Uprose  the  morning  sun,  .'..-.. 
And  Matthew  stopp'd,  he  look'd,  and  said 
"  The  Will  of  God  be  done ! " 

A  village  Schoolmaster  was  he, 
With  hair  of  glittering  grey ; 
As  blithe  a  man. as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday^ 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass,! 
And  by  the  steaming  rills, 
We  traveird  merrily  to  pass. 
A  day  among  the  hills. 

"  Our  work  (said  I)  was  well  begun; 
"  Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 
<f  Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun, 
M  So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought?7' 


or     . 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop, 
And  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top 
To  me  he  made  reply.— 

'Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 
'  Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 

*  A  day  like  this  which  I  have  left 

*  Full  thirty  years  behind. 

*  And  on  that  slope  of  springing  corn 

*  The  self  same  crimson  hue 

'  Fell  from  the  sky  that  April  morn,, 
'  The  same  which  now  I  view ! 

*  With  rod  and  line  my  silent  sport 
'  I  plied  by  Derwent's  wave, 

*  And  coming  to  the  church,  stopp'd  short 

*  Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

'Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen; 
4  The  pride  of  all  the  vale; 
'  And  then  she  sang! — she  would  have  been 
'A  very  nightingale. 

*  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay, 

*  And  yet  I  lov'd  her  more, 

'For  so  it  seem'd,  than  till  that  day 
'  I  e'er  had  lov'd  before. 
Vol.  II.  L2 


9S 


*  And,  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met 
■  Beside  the  church-yard  Yew 

'  A  blooming  Girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
'  With  points  of  morning  dew. 

'  A  basket  on  her  head  she  bear* 
'  Her  brow,  was  smooth  and  white, 
'  To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 

*  It  was  a  pure  delight! 

'No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 
'  E'er  tripp'd  with  foot  so  free, 
4  She  seem'd  as  happy  as  a  wave 
6  That  dances  on  the  sea. 

'  There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 
'  Which  I  could  ill  confine; 
'  I  fbok'd  at  her,  and  look'd  again: 
'  —-And  did  not  wish  her  mine.' 

Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now 
Methinks  I  see  him  stand, 
As  at  that  moment,  with  his  bough 
Of  wilding  in  his  hand.  • 


9$ 


THE  FOUNTAIN, 

A  Conversation. . 


WE  talk'd  with'  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true,- 
A  pair  of  Friends,  though  I  was  young, 
And  Matthew  seventy-two ! 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, . 
Beside  a  mossy  sear, 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke,, 
And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

Now,  Matthew,  let  us  try  to  match 
This  water's  pleasant  tune 
With  some  old  ''Border-song,  or  Catch 
That  suits  a  summer's  noon. 

Or  of  the  Church-clock  and  the  Chimes 
Sing,  here  beneath  the  shade, 
That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
Which  you  last  April  made  i 


100 

Oh  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree ; 
And  thus  the  dear  old  Man  replied, 

The  grey-hair'd  Man  of  glee. — 

.   ■ 

"Down  to  the  vale  this  water  steers*. 
How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
Twill  murmur  on  a  thousand  years,. 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

"  And  here,  on  this  delightful  day* 
I  cannot  chuse  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  Man,  I,  jay 
Beside  this  Fountain's  brink. 

**  My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears^ 
My  heart  is  idly  stirr*d, 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  cars,. 
Which  in  those  days  1  heard, 

"  Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay;: 
And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away 
Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

"  The  black-bird  in  the  summer  trees, 
The  lark  upon  the  hill, 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 
Are  quiet  when  they  will. 


101 

"  With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 
A  foolish  strife  \  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free :   . 

"  But  we  are  press'd  by  heavy  laws, 
And  often,  glad  no  more*  I 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 
We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

"  If  there  is  one  who  need  bemoan 
His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, 
It  is  the  Man  of  Mirth. 

«  My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone, 
My  life  has  been  approv'd* 
And  many  love  me,  but  by  none 
Am  I  enough  belov'd!" 

Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs* 
The  man  who  thus  complains ! 
I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains. 

And  Matthew,  for  thy  Children  dead 
I'll  be  a  son  to  thee ! 
At  this  he  grasp'd  his  hands,  and  said, 
«'  Alas !  that  cannot  be." 


1G& 


We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side, 
And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide, 
And  through  the  wood  we  went» 

And,  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  Rock* 
He  sang  those  witty  rhymes  I 
Abont  the  crazy  old  Church-clock, 
And  the  bewilder'd  Chimes* 


W 


NUTTING. 


-It  seemM  a  day, 


One  of  those  heavenly  days  which  cannot  die, 
When  forth  I  sallied  from  our  cottage  door,* 
And  with  a  wallet  o'er  my  shoulder  slung, 
A  nutting  crook  in  hand,  I  turn'd  my  steps 
Towards  the  distant  woods,  a  Figure  quaint, 
Trick'd  out  in  proud  disguise  of  Beggar's  weeds 
Put  on  for  the  occasion,  by  advice 
And  exhortation  of  my  frugal  Dame. 
Motley  accoutrements!  of  power  to  smile 
At  thorns,  and  brakes,  and  brambles,  and  in 

truth, 
More  ragged  than  need  was.     Among  the 

woods, 
And  o'er  the  pathless  rocks,  I  forc'd  my  way 
Until,  at  length,  I  came  to  one  dear  nook 
Unvisited,  where  not  a  broken  bough 


•'  The  house  at  which  I  was  boarded  during  the 
time  I  was  at  School. 


104 


Droop'd  with  its  wither'd  leaves,  ungracious 

sign 
Of  devastation,  but  the  hazels  rose 
Tall  and  erect,  with  milk-white  clusters  hung, 
A  virgin  scene '!« — A  little  while  I  stood, 
Breathing  with  such  suppression  of  the  heart 
As  joy  delights  in;  and  with  wise  restraint 
Voluptuous,  fearless  of  a  rival,  eyed 
The  banquet,  or  beneath  the  trees  1  sate 
Among  the  flowers,   and  with  the  flowers  I 

play'd; 
A  temper  known  to  those,  who,  after  long 
And  weary  expectation,  have  been  bless'd 
With  sudden  happiness  beyond  all  hope.-*-*     = . 
—Perhaps  it  was  a  bower  beneath  whose  leaves 
The  violets  of  five  seasons  re-appear 
And  fade,  unseen  by  any  human  eye, 
Where  fairy  water-breaks  do  murmur  on 
For  ever,  and  T  saw  the  sparkling  foam, 
And  with  my  cheek  on  one  of  those  green  stones 
That  fleec'd  with  •moss,    beneath  the   shady 

trees, 
Lay  round  me  scatter'd  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
I  heard  the  murmur  and  the  murmuring  sound, 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasure  loves  to  pay 
Tribute  to  ease,  and  of  its  joy  secure, 
The  heart  luxuriates  with  indifferent  things, 
Wasting  its  kindliness  on  stocks  and  stones. 
And  on  the  vacant  air.     Then  up  I  rose, 


105 


And  dragg'd  to  earth  both  branch  and  bough, 

with  crash 
And  merciless  ravage ;  and  the  shady  nook 
of  hazels,  and  the  green  and  mossy  bower 
Deform'd  and  sullied,  patiently  gave  up 
Their  quiet  being ;  and  unless  I  now 
Confound  my  present  feelings  with  the  past, 
Even  then,  when  from  the  bower  I  turn'd  away, 
Exulting,  rich  beyond  the  wealth  of  kings, 
I  felt  a  sense  of  pain  when  I  beheld 
The  silent  trees  and  the  intruding  sky. — 

Then  dearest  Maiden !  move  along  these 
shades 
In  gentleness  of  heart  with  gentle  hand 
Touch,  for  there  is  a  Spirit  in  the  woods. 


Vol.  II. 


106 


THREE  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said,    "  A  lovelier  Flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown; 
This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take, 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  Lady  of  my  own. 

w  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse,  and  with  me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs, 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 


107 


"  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her,  for  her  the  willow  bend, 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see, 

Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm, 

A  beauty  that  shall  mould  her  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her,  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

*\  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 
Her  virgin  bosom  swell, 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done- 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run ! 
She  died  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene, 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 
And  never  more  will  be. 


108 


THE   PE T.LAMB, 

A    PASTORAL. 


THE  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began  to 
blink ; 

I  heard  a  -voice,  it  said,  Drink,  pretty  Crea- 
ture! drink: 

And  looking  o'er  the  hedge,  before  me  I  es- 
pied, 

A  snow-white  mountain  Lamb  with  a  Maiden 
at  its  side. 


No  other  slieep  were  near,  the  Lamb  was  all 
alone, 

And  by  a  slender  cord  was  tether'd  to  a  stone ; 

With  one  knee  on  the  grass  did  the  little  Mai- 
den kneel, 

While  to  that  mountain  Lamb  she  gave  its 
evening  meal. 


109 


The  Lamb  while  from  her  hand  he  thus  his 

supper  took 
Seem'd  to  feast  with  head  and  ears,  and  his 

tail  with  pleasure  shook. 
"  Drink,  pretty  Creature!  drink,"  she  said  in 

such  a  tone 
That  I  almost  receiv'd  her  heart  into  my  own. 

'Twas  little  Barbara  Lewthwaite,  a  child  of 
beauty  rare, 

I  watch'd  them  with  delight,  they  were  a  love- 
ly pair. 

And  now  with  empty  Can  the  Maiden  turn'd 
away, 

But  ere  ten  yards  were  gone  her  footsteps  did 
she  stay. 

Towards  the  Lamb  she  look'd,  and  from  that 
shady  place 

I  unobserv'd  could  see  the  workings  of  her 
face : 

If  Nature  to  her  tongue  could  measured  num- 
bers bring 

Thus,  thought  I,  to  her  Lamb  that  little  Maid 
would  sing. 

Vol.  II.  K  2 


110 


"  What  ails  thee  Young-one,— What  ?  Why- 
pull  so  at  thy  cord? 

Is  it  not  well  with  thee  ?  Well  both  for  bed 
and  board  ? 

Thy  plot  of  grass  is  soft,  and  green  as  grass 
can  be, 

Rest  little  Young-one,  rest !  What  is't  that 
aileth  thee? 


"  What  is  it  thou  would' st  seek  ?    What  is 

wanting  to  thy  heart  ? 
Thy  limbs  are  they  not  strong  ?  And  beautiful 

thou  art: 
This  grass  is  tender  grass,  these  flowers  they 

have  no  peers, 
And  that  green  corn  all  day  is  rustling  in  thy 

ears. 


"  If  the  Sun  is  shining  hot,  do  but  stretch  thy 

woollen  chain, 
This  beech  is  standing  by,    its  covert  thou 

canst  gain; 
For  rain  and  mountain  storms,  the  like  thou 

need'st  not  fear, 
The  rain  and  storm  are  things  which  scarcely 

can  come  here. 


Ill 


"  Rest,  little  Young-one,  rest !     Thou  hast 

forgot  the  day 
When  my  father  found  thee  first  in  places  far 

away: 
Many  flocks  are  on  the  hills,   but  thou  wert 

own'd  by  none, 
And  thy  Mother  from  thy  side  for  evermore 

was  gone. 

"  He  took  thee  In  his- arms,  and  in  pity  brought 

thee  home, 
A  blessed  day  for  thee !  then  whither  would'st 

thou  roam  ? 
A  faithful  nurse  thou  hast,  the  dam  that  did 

thee  yean 
Upon  the  mountain  tops  no  kinder  could  have 

been. 


f*  Thou  know'st  that  twice  a  day  I  have 

brought  thee  in  this  Can 
Fresh  water  from  the  brook,  as  clear  as  ever 

ran; 
And  twice  in  the  day  when  the  ground  is  wet 

with  dew, 
I  bring  thee  draughts  of  milk,  warm  milk  it 

is  and  new. 


112 


"  Thy  limbs  will  shortly  be  twice  as  stout  as 

they  are  now, 
Then  I'll  yoke  thee  to  my  cart  like  a  poney 

in  the  plough, 
My  playmate  thou  shalt  be,  and  when  the 

wind  is  cold 
Our  hearth  shall  be  thy  bed,  our  house  shall 

be  thy  fold. 

"  It  will  not,  will  not  rest ! — poor  Creature 
can  it  be 

That  'tis  thy  Mother's  heart  which  is  working 
so  in  thee  ? 

Things  that  I  know  not  of  belike  to  thee  are 
dear, 

And  dreams  of  things  which  thou  cans't  nei- 
ther see  nor  hear. 


"  Alas !  the  mountain  tops  that  look  so  green 

and  fair ! 
I've  heard  of  fearful  winds  and  darkness  that 

come  there ; 
The  little  brooks,  that  seem  all  pastime  and 

all  play, 
When  they  are  angry,  roar  like  lions  for  their 

prey. 


113 


r  Here  thou  need'st  not  dread  the  Raven  in 

the  sky, 
He  will  not  come  to  thee,  our  Cottage  is  hard 

Night  and  day  thou  art  safe  as  living  thing 

can  be, 
Be  happy  then  and  rest,  what  is't  that  aileth 

thee?" 


As  homeward  through  the  lane  I  went  with 

lazy  feet, 
This  Song  to  myself  did  I  oftentimes  repeat, 
And  it  seem'd  as  I  rctrac'd  the  Ballad  line  by 

line, 
That  but  half  of  it  was  hers,  and  one  half  of 

it  was  mine. 


Again,  and  once  again  did  I  repeat  the  Song, 

"  Nay  (said  I)  more  than  half  to  the  Dam- 
sel must  belong, 

For  she  look'd  with  such  a  look  and  she  spake 
with  such  a  tone, 

That  I  almost  receiv'd  her  heart  into  my  own." 


£14 


Written  in 
GERMANY, 

On  one  of  the  coldest  Days  of  the  Century. 

1  must  apprize  the  Reader  that  the 
Stoves  in  North  Germany  generally  have  the  Impres- 
sion of  a  galloping  Horse  upon  them,  this  being  Part 
tf  the  Brunswick  Arms. 


A  Fig  for  your  languages,  German  and  Norse, 

Let  me  have  the  Song  of  the  Kettle, 

And  the  Tongs  and  the  Poker,  instead  of  that 

Horse 
That  gallops  away  with  such  fury  and  force 
On  this  dreary  dull  plate  of  black  metal. 

Our  earth  is  no  doubt  made  of  excellent  stuff, 
But  her  pulses  beat  slower  and  slower, 
The  weather  in  Forty  was  cutting  and  rough, 
And  then,  as  Heaven  knows,  the  glass  stood 

*  low  enough, 
And  now  it  is  four  degrees  lower. 


115 


Here's  a  Fly,  a  disconsolate  creature,  perhaps 
A  child  of  the  field,  or  the  grove, 
And  sorrow  for  him !  this  dull  treacherous  heat 
Has  seduced  the  poor  fool  from  his  winter  re- 
treat, 
And  he  creeps  to  the  edge  of  my  stove. 

Alas  !  how  he  fumbles  about  the  domains 

Which  this  comfortless  oven  environ, 

He  cannot  find  out  in  what  track  he  must 

crawl, 
Now  back  to  the  tiles,  and  now  back  to  the 

wall, 
And  now  on  the  brink  of  the  iron : 

Stock-still  there  he  stands  like  a  traveller  be- 

maz'd, 
The  best  of  his  skill  he  has  tried ; 
His  feelers  methinks  I  can  see  him  put  forth 
To  the  East  and  the  West,  and  the  South,  and 

the  North, 
But  he  finds  neither  guide-post  nor  guide. 

See!    his  spindles  sink  under  him-,  foot,  leg 

and  thigh, 
His  eye-sight  and  hearing  are  lost, 
Between  life  and  death  his  blood  freezes  and 

thaws, 
And  his  two  pretty  pinions  of  blue  dusky  gauze 
Are  glued  to  his  sides  by  the  frost. 


lie 


No  Brother,   no  Friend  has  he  near  him, 

while  I 
Can  draw  warmth  from  the  cheek  of  my  love, 
As  blest  and  as  glad  in  this  desolate  gloom, 
As  if  green  summer  grass  were  the  floor  of  my 

room, 
And  woodbines  were  hanging  above. 

Yet  God  is  my  witness,  thou  small  helpless 

Thing, 
Thy  life  I  would  gladly  sustain 
Till  summer  comes  up  from  the  Souths,    and 

with  crowds 
Of  thy  brethren  a  march  thou  should'st  sound 

thro'  the  clouds, 
And  back  to  the  forests  sgain. 


in 


THE 


CHILDLESS  FATHER. 


UP,  Timothy,  up  with  your  staff  and  away  I 
Not  a  soul  in  the  village  this  morning  will  stay; 
The  Hare  has  just  started  from  Hamilton's 

grounds, 
And  Skiddaw  is  glad  with  the  cry  of  the  hounds. 

■ — Of  coats  and  of  jackets  both  grey,  scarlet 

and  green, 
On  the  slopes  of  the  pastures  all  colours  were 

seen; 
With  their  comely  blue  aprons  and  caps  white 

as  snow, 
The  girls  on  the  hills  made  a  holiday  show. 

Vol.  II.  .L 


US 


The  bason  of  Box- wood,*  just  six  months  be* 

fore, 
Had  stood  on  the  table  at  Timothy's  door, 
A  Coffin  thro'  Timothy's  threshold  had  pass'd, 
One  Child  did  it  bear,  and  that  child  was  his 

last. 


Now  fast  up  the  dell  came  the  noise  and  the 

fray, 
The  horse  and  the  horn,  and  the  Hark !  Hark 

away ! 
Old  Timothy  took  up  his  staff,  and  he  shut 
With  a  leizurely  motion  the  door  of  his  hut. 


Perhaps  to  himself  at  that  moment  he  said, 
"  .The  key  I  must  take,  for  my  Ellen  is  dead." 
But  of  this  in  my  ears  not  a  word  did  he  speak, 
And  he  went  to  the  Chase  with  a  tear  on  hip 
cheek.  « 


*  In  several  parts  of  the  North  of  England,  vtfien 
a  funeral  takes  place,  a  bason  full  of  Sprigs  of  Box- 
wood is  placed  at  the  door  of  the  house  from  which 
the  Coffin  is  taken  up,  and  each  person  who  attends 
the  funeral  ordinarily  takes  a  Sprig  of  this  Box-wood, 
and  throws  it  into  the  grave  of  the  deceased. 


m 


THE 


OLD  CUMBERLAND  BEGGAR. 


The  Class  of  Beggars  to  nvhich  the  Old  Man  here 
described  belongs,  will  probably  soon  be  extinct.  It 
consisted  of  poor,  and,  mostly,  old  and  infirm  persons 
nvho  confined  themselves  to  a  stated  round  in  their 
neighbourhood,  and  had  certain  fixed  days,  on  ivhich, 
at  different  houses,  they  regularly  received  charity  \ 
sometimes  in  money,  but  mostly  in  provisions, 

I  SAW  an  aged  Beggar  in  my  walk, 
And  he  was  seated  by  the  highway  side 
On  a  low  structure  of  rude  masonry 
Built  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  hill,  that  they 
Who  lead  their  horses  down  the  steep  rough 

road 
May  thence  remount  at  ease.    The  aged  man 
Had  placed  his  staff  across  the  broad  smooth 

stone 
That  overlays  the  pile,  and  from  a  bag 


120 


All  white  with  flour,  the  dole  of  village  dames, 
He  drew  his  scraps  and  fragments,  one  by  one* 
And  scann'dthem  with  a  fix'd  and  serious  look 
.Of  idle  computation.     In  the  sun, 
Upon  the  second  step  of  that  small  pile, 
Surrounded  by  those  wild  unpeopled  hills, 
He  sate,  and  eat  his  food  in  solitude; 
And  ever,  scatter'd  from  his  palsied  hand, 
That  still  attempting  to  prevent  the  waste 
Was  baffled  still,  the  crumbs  in  little  showers 
Fell  on  the  ground,,  and  the  small  mountain 

birds, 
Not  venturing  yet  to  peck  their  destined  meal, 
Approach'd  within  the  length  of  half  his  staff. 

Him  from  my  childhood  have  I  known,  and 

then 
He  was  so  old,  he  seems  not  older  now; 
He  travels  on,  a  solitary  man, 
So  helpless  in  appearance,  that  for  him 
The  sauntering  horseman-traveller  does  not 

throw 
With  careless  hand  his  alms  upon  the  ground, 
But  stops,  that  he  may  safely  lodge  the  coin 
Within  the  old  Man's  hat ;  nor  quits  him  so, 
But  still  when  he  has  given  his  horse  the  rein 
Towards  the  aged  Beggar,  turns  a  look, 
Side-long  and  half-reverted.     She  who  tends 
The  toll-gate,  when  in  summer  at  her  door 


121 


She  turns  her  wheel,  if  on  the  road  she  sees 
The  aged  Beggar  coming,  quits  her  work, 
And  lifts  the  latch  for  him  that  he  may  pass. 
The  Post-boy  when  his  rattling  wheels  o'ertake 
The  aged  Beggar,  in  the  woody  lane, 
Shouts  to  him  from  behind,  and,  if  perchance 
The  old  Man  does  not  change  his  course,  the 

Boy 
Turns  with  less  noisy  wheels  to  the  road-side, 
And  passes  gently  by,  without  a  curse 
Upon  his  lips,  or  anger  at  his  heart.. 

He  travels  on,  a  solitary  Man, 
His  age  has  no  companion.     On  the  ground 
His  eyes  are  turn'd,  and,  as  he  moves  along, 
They  move  along  the  ground;  and  evermore, 
Instead  of  common  and  habitual  sight 
Of  fields  with  rural  works,  of  hill  and  dale, 
And  the  blue-sky,  one  little  span  of  earth 
Is  all  his  prospect..    Thus*  from  day  to  day,. 
Bow-bent,  his  eyes  for  ever  on  the  ground, 
He  plies  his  weary  journey,  seeing  still, 
And  never  knowing  that  he  sees,  some  straw, 
Some  scatter'd  leaf,  or  marks  which,  in  one 

track, 
The  nails  of  cart  or  chariot  wheel  have  left 
Impress'd  on  the  white-road,  in  the  same  line, 
At  distance  still  the  same.     Poor  Traveller! 
His  staff  trails  with  him ;  scarcely  do  his  feet 

Vol.  II.  L  2 


122 


Disturb  the  summer  dust ;  he  is  so  stilt 
In  look  and  motion  that  the  cottage  curs, 
Ere  he  have  pass'd  the  door,  will  turn  away 
Weary  of  barking  at  him.     Boys  and  girls, 
The  vacant  and  the  busy,  maids  and  youths, 
And  urchins  newly  breech'd  all  pass  him  by: 
Him  even  the  slow-pac'd  waggon  leaves  behind. 

But  deem  not  this  man  useless. — Statesmen!  ye 
Who  are  so  restless  in  your  wisdom,  ye. 
Who  have  a  broom  still  ready  in  your  hands- 
To  rid  the  world  of  nuisances ;  ye  proud, 
Heart-swoln,  while  in  your  pride  ye  contem- 
plate 
Your  talents,  power,  and  wisdom,  deem  him 

not 
A  burthen  of  the  earth.     'Tis  nature's  law 
That  none,  the  meanest  of  created  things, 
Of  forms  created  the  most  vile  and  brute, 
The  dullest  or  most  noxious,  should  exist 
Divorced  from  good,  a  spirit  and  pulse  of  goad, 
A  life  and  soul  to  every  mode  of  being 
Inseparably  link'd.     While  thus  he  creeps 
From  door  to  door,  the  Villagers  in  him 
Behold  a  record  which  together  binds 
Past  deeds  and  offices  of  charity, 
Else  unremember'd,  and  so  keeps  alive 
The  kindly  mood  in  hearts  which  lapse  of  years, 
And  that  half-wisdom  half-experience  gives 


123 


Make  slow  to  feel,  and  by  sure  steps  resign 
To  selfishness  and  cold  oblivious  cares. 
Among  the  farms  and  solitary  huts, 
Hamlets,  and  thinly  scattered  villages, 
Where'er  the  aged  Beggar  takes  his  rounds, 
The  mild  necessity  of  use  compels 
To  acts  of  love;  and  habit  does  the  work 
Of  reason,  yet  prepares  that  after  joy 
Which  reason  cherishes.     And  thus  the  soul, 
By  that  sweet  taste  of  pleasure  unpursu'd 
.Doth  find  itself  insensibly  dispos'd 
To  virtue  and  true  goodness.    Some  there  are, 
By  their  good  works  exalted,  lofty  minds 
And  meditative,  authors  of  delight 
And  happiness,  which  to  the  end  of  time 
Will  live,  and  spread,  and  kindle;  minds  like 

these, 
In  childhood,  from  this  solitary  being, 
This  helpless  wanderer,  have  perchance receiv'd 
(A  thing  more  precious  far  thanall  that  books 
Or  the  solicitudes  of  Love  can  do !) 
That  first  mild  touch  of  sympathy  and  thought, 
In  which  they  found  their  kindred  with  a  world 
Where  want  and  sorrow  were.    The  easy  man 
Who  sits  at  his  own  door,  and  like  the  pear 
Which  overhangs  his  head  from  the  green  wall, 
Feeds  in  the  sunshine ;  the  robust  and  young, 
The  prosperous  and  unthinking,  they  who  live 
Sheltered,  and  flourish  in  a  little  grove 


124 


Of  their  own  kindred,  all  behold  in  him 
A  silent  monitor,  which  on  their  minds 
Must  needs  impress  a  transitory  thought 
Of  self-congratulation,  to  the  heart 
Of  each  recalling  his  peculiar  boons, 
His  charters  and  exemptions  ;  and  perchance, 
Though  he  to  no  one  give  the  fortitude 
And  circumspection  needful  to  preserve 
His  present  blessings,  anJ  to  husband  up 
The  respite  of  the  season,  he,  at  least, 
And  'tis  no  vulgar  service,  makes  the jn  felt- 


Yet  further. Many,  I  believe,  there  are 

Who  live  a  life  of  virtuous  decency, 
Men  who  can  hear  the  Decalogue  and  feel 
No  self-reproach,  who  of  the  Moral  Law 
Established  in  the  land  where  they  abide 
Are  strict  observers,  and  not  negligent, 
Meanwhile,  in  any  tenderness  of  heart 
Or  act  of  love  to  those  with  whom  they  dwell, 
Their  kindred,  and  the  children  of  their  blood. 
Praise  be  to  such,  and  to  their  slumbers  peace! 
—But  of  the  poor  man  ask,  the  abject  poor, 
Go  and  demand  of  him,  if  there  be  here, 
In  this  cold  abstinence  from  evil  deeds, 
And  these  inevitable  charities, 


12$ 


Wherewith  to  satisfy  the  human  souL 
No. — Man  is  dear  to  Man :  The  poorest  poor 
Long  for  some  moments  in  a  weary  life, 
When  they  can  know  and  feel  that  they  have 

been 
Themselves  the  fathers  and  the  dealers  out 
Of  some  small  blessings,  have  been  kind  to  such 
As  needed  kindness,  for  this  single  cause, 
That  we  have  all  of  us  one  human  heart. 
i — Such  pleasure  is  to  one  kind  Being  known, 
My  Neighbour,  when  with  punctual  care  each 

week, 
Duly  as  Friday  comes,  though  press'd  herself 
By  her  own  wants,  she  from  her  chest  of  meal 
Takes  one  unsparing  handful  for  the  scrip 
Of  this  old  Mendicant,  and,  from  her  doo? 
Returning  with  exhiliratcd  heart, 
Sits  by  her  fire  and  builds  her  hope  in  heav'n. 

Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  headf 
And  while,  in  that  vast  solitude  to  which 
The  tide  of  things  has  led  him-,  he  appears 
To  breathe  and  live  but  for  himself  alone, 
Unblam'd,  uninjur'd,  let  him  bear  about 
The  good  which  the  benignant  Law  of  Heaven 
Has  hung  around  him,  and,  while  life  is  his, 
Still  let  him  prompt  the  unletter'd  Villagers 
To  Render  offices,  and  pensive  thoughts. 
Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head ! 


126 


And  long  as  he  can  wander,  let  him  breathe 
The  freshness  of  the  vallies,  let  his  blood 
Struggle  with  frosty  air  and  winter  snows, 
And  let  the  charter'd  wind  that  sweeps  the  heath 
Beat  his  grey  locks  against  his  wither'd  face. 
Reverence  the  hope  whose  vital  anxiousness 
Gives  the  last  human  interest  to  his  heart- 
May  never  House,  misnamed  of  Industry,. 
Make  him  a  captive ;  for  that  pent-up  din, 
Those  life-consuming  sounds  that  clog  the  air,. 
Be  his  the  natural  silence  of  old  age. 
Let  him  be  free  of  mountain  solitudes, 
And  have  around  him,  whether  heard  or  not, 
The  pleasant  melody  of  woodland  birds. 
Few  are  his  pleasures ;  ff  his  eyes,  which  now 
Have  been  so  long  familiar  with  the  earth, 
No  more  behold  the  horizontal  sun 
Rising  or  setting,,  let  the  light  at  least 
Find  a  free  entrance  to  their  languid  orbs. 
And  let  him,  where  and  when  he  will,  sit  down 
Beneath  the  "trees,  or  by  the  grassy  bank 
Of  high-way  side,  and  with  the  little  birds 
Share  his  chance-gather'd  meal,  and,  finally, 
As  in  the  eye  of  Nature  he  has  lived,. 
So  in  the  eye  of  Nature  let  him  die. 


127 


RURAL  ARCHITECTURE, 


There's  George  Fisher,    Charles  Fleming, 

and  Reginald  Shore, 
Three  rosy-cheek'd  School-boys,  the  highest 

not  more 
Than  the  height  of  a  Counsellor's  bag ; 
To  the  top  of  Great  How*  did  it  please  them 

to  climb, 
And  there  they  built  up  without  mortar  or  lime 
A  Man  on  the  Peak  of  the  Crag. 


*  Great  How  is  a  single  and  conspicuous  Hill, 
which  rises  towards  the  foot  of  Thirl-mere,  on  the 
western  side  of  the  beautiful  dale  of  Legberthwaite^ 
along  the  high  road  between  Keswick  and  Amble- 
side. 


128 


They  built  him  of  stones  gather'd  up  as  they 

lay, 
They  built  hirnandchristen'dhimall  in  one  day, 
An  Urchin  both  vigorous  and  hale , 
And  so  without  scruple  they  calPd  him  Ralph 

Jones : 
Now  Ralph  is  renown'd  for  the  length  of  his 

bones, 
The  Magog  of  Legberthwaite  dale. 

Just  half  a  week  after  the  Wind  sallied  forth, 
And/  in  anger  or  merriment,  out  of  the  North, 
Coming  on  with  a  terrible  pother, 
From  the  Peak  of  the  Crag  blew  the  Giant 

away : 
And  what  did  these  School-boys  ? — The  very 

next  day 
They  went  and  they  built  up  another ! 

— Some  little  I've  seen  of  blind  boisterous  works 
In  Paris  and  London,  'mong  Christians  or  Turks 
Spirits  busy  to  do  and  undo  : 
At  remembrance  whereof  my  blood  sometimes 

will  flag. 
— Then,  light-hearted  Boys,  to  the  top  of  the 

Crag! 
And  I'll  build  up  a  Giant  with  you. 


129 


A  POET's  EPITAPH. 


ART  thou  a  Statesmen,  in  the  van 
Of  public  business  train'd  and  bred  ? 
— First  learn  to  love  one  living  man ; 
Then  may'st  thou  think  upon  the  dead, 

A  Lawyer  art  thou? — draw  not  nigh; 
Co,  carry  to  some  other  place 
The  hardness  of  thy  coward  eye, 
The  falsehood  of  thy  sallow  face. 

Art  thou  a  man  of  purple  cheer? 
A  rosy  man,  right  plump  to  see? 
Approach ;  yet  Doctor,  not  too  near : 
This  grave  no  cushion  is  for  thee. 

Art  thou  a  man  of  gallant  pride, 
A  Soldier,  and  no  man  of  chaff? 
Welcome ! — but  lay  thy  sword  aside 
And  lean  upon  a  Peasant's  staff. 

Vol.  If.  M 


130 

Physician  art  thou  ?    One,  all  eyes, 
Philosopher !  a  fingering  slave, 
One  that  would  peep  and  botanize 
Upon  his  mother's  grave? 

Wrapp'd  closely  in  thy  sensual  fleece 
O  turn  aside,  and  take,  I  pray, 
That  he  below  may  rest  in  peace, 
Thy  pin-point  of  a  soul  away  ! 

— A  Moralist  perchance  appears  -y 
Led,  Heaven  knows  how  \  to  this  poor  sod: 
And  He  has  neither  eyes  nor  ears: 
Himself  his  world,  and  his  own  God ; 

One  to  whose  smooth-rubb'd  soul  can  cling 
Nor  form  nor  feeling  great  nor  small,  - 
A  reasoning,  self-sufficing  thing, 
An  intellectual  All  in  All ! 

Shut  close  the  door !  press  down  the  latch : 
Sleep  in  thy  intellectual  crust, 
Nor  lose  ten  tickings  of  thy  watch, 
Near  this  unprofitable  dust. 

But  who  is  He  with  modest  looks, 
And  clad  in  homely  russet  brown  ? 
He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own. 


131 

He  is  retired  as  noontide  dew, 
Or  fountain  in  a  noon-day  grove .; 
And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

The  outward  shews  of  sky  and  earth, 
Of  hill  and  valley  he  has  view'd ; 
And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart 
The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 
That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 

But  he  is  weak,  both  man  and  boy, 
Hath  been  an  idler  in  the  land ; 
Contented  if  he  might  enjoy 
The  things  which  others  understand. 

— Come  hither  in  thy  hour  of  strength, 
Come,  weak  as  is  a  breaking  wave ! 
Here  stretch  thy  body  at  full  length , 
Or  build  thy  house  upon  this  grave. lm 


132 


A  CHARACTER 

In  the  antithetical  Manner. 


I  marvel  How  Nature  could  ever  find  space 
For  the  weight  and  the  levity  seen  m  his  facer 
There's  thought  and  no  thought,  and  there's 

paleness  and  bloom, 
And  bustle  and  sluggishness,    pleasure  and 

gloom. 


There's  weakness,  and  strength,  both  redun- 
dant and  vain ; 

Such  strength,  as  if  ever  affliction  and  pain 

Could  pierce  through  a  temper  that's  soft  to 
disease, 

Would  be  rational  peace — a  Philosopher's  ease. 


133 


There's  indifference,  alike  when  he  fails  and 

succeeds, 
And  attention  full  ten  times  as  much  as  there 

needs, 
Pride  where  there's' no  envy,  there's  so  much 

of  joy, 
And  mildness,  and  spirit  both  forward  and 

coy. 

There's  freedom,  and  sometimes  a  diffident 
stare 

Of  shame  scarcely  seeming  to  know  that  she's 
there. 

There's  virtue,  the  title  it  surely  may  claim, 

Yet  wants,  Heaven  knows  what,  to  be  wor- 
thy the  name. 

What  a  picture!    'tis  drawn  without  Nature 

or  Art, 
—Yet  the  Man  would  ajt  once  run  away  with 

your  heart, 
And  I  for  five  centuries  right  gladly  would  be 
Such  an  odd,  such  a  kind  happy  creature  as  he. 


Vol.  II.  M  it 


134* 


-d?  FRAGMENT. 


Between  two  sister  moorland  rills 

There  is  a  spot  that  seems  to  lie 

Sacred  to  flow'rets  of  the.  hills,. 

And  sacred  to  the  sky. 

And -in .-this -smooth  and  open  dell 

There  is  a  tempest-stricken  tree; 

A  corner-stone  by  lightning  cut, 

The  last  stone  of  a. cottage. hut;. 

And  in  this^dell  you  see 

A  thing  no  storm  can  e'er  destroy. 

The  shadow  of  a  Danish  Boy. 

In  clouds  above,  the  lark  is  heard,. 

He  sings  his  blithest  and  his  best; 

But  in  this  lonesome  nook  the  bird 

Did  never  build  his  nest. 

No  beast j  no  bird  hath  here  his  home; 

The  bees  borne  on  the  breezy  air 

Pass  high  above  those  fragrant  bells 

To  other  flowers,  to  other  dells, 

Nor  ever  linger  there. 

The  Danish  Boy  walks  here  alone  I 

The  lovely  dell  is  all  his  Own. 


135 

A  spirit  of  noon-day  is  he, 

He  seems  a  Form  of  flesh  and  blood; 

A  piping  Shepherd  he  might  be, 

A  Herd-boy  of  the  wood. 

A  regal  vest  of  fur  he  wears, 

In  colour  like  a  raven's  wing; 

It  fears  nor  rain,,  nor  wind,  nor  dew, 

But  in  the  storm  'tis  fresh  and  blue 

As  budding  pines  in  Spring ; 

His  helmet  has  a  vernal  grace,. 

Fresh  as  the  bloom  upon  his  face. 

A  harp  is  from  his  shoulder  slung; 
He  rests  the  harp  upon  his  knee, 
And  there  in  a  forgotten  tongue 
He  warbles  melody. 
Of  flocks  and  herds  both  far  and  near 
He  is  the  darling  and  the  joy, 
And  often,  when  no  cause  appears, 
The  mountain  ponies  prick  their  ears, 
They  hear  the  Danish  Boy, 
While  in  the  dell  he  sits  alone 
Beside  the  tree  and  corner  stone; 

When  near  this  blasted  tree  you  psss, 
Two  sods  are  plainly  to  be  seen 
Close  at  its  root,  and  each  with  grass 
Is  cover'd  fresh  and  green- 


iU 

Like  turf  upon  a  new-rfrade  grave 
These  two  green  sods  together  Ire, 
Nor  heat,  nor  cold,  nor  rain,  nor  wind, 
Can  these  two  sods  together  bind, 
Nor  sun,  nor  earth,  nor  sky, 
But  side  by  side  the  two  are  lard, 
As  if  just  sever'd  by  the  spade. 

There  sits  he:  In  his  Face  you  spy- 
No  trace  of  a  ferocious  air, 
Nor  ever  was  a  cloudless  sky 
So  steady  or  so  fair. 
The  lovely  Danish  Boy  is  blest 
And  happy  in  hrs  flowery  cove ; 
From  bloody  deeds  his  thoughts  are  far; 
And  yet  he  warbles  songs  of  war; 
They  seem  like  Songs  of  love, 
For  calm  and  gentle  is  his  mein  j 
Like  a  dead  Boy  he  is  serene. 


13? 


ADFERTISEMENr. 

BY  persons  resident  in  the  country  and  attached  to 
rural  objects,  many  places  will  be  found  un-named  or  of  un- 
known names,  where  little  Incidents  will  have  occurred,  or 
Feelings  been  experienced,  which  will  have  given  to  such  pla- 
ces a  private  and  peculiar  interest.  From  a  wish  to  give 
some  sort  of  Record  to  such  Incidents  or  renew  the  gratifi- 
cation of  such  Feelings,  names  have  baen  given  to  places  by 
the  Author  and  some  of  his  friends,  and  the  following  Poems 
written  in  consequence. 

POEMS 

OK     THX 

NAMING  OF  PLACES. 


I. 


IT  was  an  April  Morning ;  fresh  and  clear 
The  Rivulet,  delighting  in  its  strength, 
Ran  with  a  young  man's  speed,  and  yet  the  voice 
Of  waters  which  the  winter  had  supplied 
Was  soften'd  down  into  a  vernal  tone. 
The  spirit  of  enjoyment  and  desire, 
And  hopes  and  wishes,  from  all  living  things. 
Went  circling,  like  a  multitude  of  sounds. 


m 


The  budding  groves  appear'd  as  if  in  hastfr 
To  spur  the  steps  of  June ;  as  if  their  shades 
Of  various  green  were  hindrances  that  stood 
Between  them  and  theif  object :    Yet,  mean 

while, 
There  was  such  deep  contentment  in  the  air 
That  every  naked  ash,  and  tardy  tree 
Yet  learles,  seem'd  as  though  the  countenance 
With  which  it  looked  on  this  delightful  day 
Were  native  to  the  summer. — Up  the  brook 

4  - 

I  roam  d  in  the  confusion  of  my  heart, 
Alive  to  all  things  and  forgetting  all. 
At  length  I  to  a  sudden  turning  came 
In  this  continuous  glen,  where  down  a  rock 
The  stream,  so  ardent  in  its  course  before, 
Sent  forth  such  sallies  or4  glad  sound,  that  all 
Which  I  till  then  had  heard,  appear'd  the  voice 
Of  common  pleasure ;  beast  and  bird,  the  lamb, 
The  Shepherd's  dog,  the  linnet  and  the  thrush 
Vied  with  this  waterfall,  and  made  a  song 
Which,  while  I  listen'd,  seem'd  like  the  wild 

growth 

Or  like, some  natural  produce  of  the  air 
That  could  not  cease  td  be.      Green  leaved* 

were  here 
But  'twas  the  foliage  of  the  rocks,  the  birch, 
The  yew,  the  holly,  and  the  bright  green  thorn, 
With  hanging  islands  of  resplendent  furze  i 
And  on  a  summit,  distant  a  short  space, 


139 


By  any  who  should  look  beyond  the  dell, 
A  single  mountain  Cottage  might  be  seen. . 
I  gay 4.  jP$i  g^z'd,  and  to  myself  I  said, 
"  Our  thoughts  at  least  are  ours ;  and  this  wild 

nook, 
"  My  Emma,  I  will  dedicate  to  thee." 
— Soon  did  the  spot  become  my  other  home, 
My  dwelling,  and  my  out-of-doors  abode, 
And,  of  the  Shepherds  who  have  seen  me  there, 
To  whom  I  sometimes  in  our  idle  talk 
Have  told  this  fancy,  two  or  three,  perhaps, 
Years  after  we  are  gone  and  in  our  graves, 
When  they  have  cause  to  speak  of  this  wild 
p  place,, 
May  call  it  by  the  name  of  Emma's  Dei,i» 


II. 


TO  JOANNA. 

Amid  the  smoke  of  cities  did  you  pass 
Your  time  of  early  youth,  and  there  you  learn'd, 
From  years  of  quiet  industry,  to  love 
The  living  Beings  by  your  own  fire-side, 
With  such  a  strong  devotion,  that  your  heart 
Is  slow  towards  the  sympathies  of  them 
Who  look  upon  the  hills  with  tenderness, 


140 

And  make  dear  friendships  with  the  streams 

and  groves. 
Yet  we  who  are  transgressors  in  this  kind, 
Dwelling  retired  in  our  simplicity 
Among  the  woods  and  fields,  we  love  you  well^ 
Joanna !  and  I  guess,  since  you  have  been 
So  distant  from  us  now  for  two  long  years, 
That  you  will  gladly  listen  to  discourse 
However  trivial,  if  you  thence  are  taught 
That  they,  with  whom  you  once  were  happy, 

talk     * 
Familiarly  of  you  and  of  old  times. 

While  I  was  seated,  now  some  ten  days  past, 
Beneath  those  lofty  firs,  that  overtop 
Their  ancient  neighbour,  the  old  steeple  tower, 
The  Vicar  from  his  gloomy  house  hard  by 
Came  forth  to  greet  me,   and  when  he  had 

ask'd, 
**  How  fares  Joanna,  that  wild-hearted  Maid ! 
"  And  when  will  she  return  to  us  ?"  he  paus'd, 
And  after  short  exchange  of  village  news, 
He  with  grave  looks  demanded,  for  what  cause, 
Reviving  obsolete  Idolatry, 
I  like  a  Runic  Priest,  in  characters 
Of  formidable  size,  had  chisel'd  out 
Some  uncouth  name  upon  the  native  rock, 
Above  the  Rotha,  by  the  forest  side. 
— Now,  bv  those  dear  immunities  of  heart 


141 


Engendered  betwixt  malice  and  true  love, 
I  was  not  loth  to  be  so  catechiz'd, 
And  this  was  my  reply. — —As  it  befel, 
One  summer  morning  we  had  walk'd  abroad 
At  break  of  day,  Joanna  and  myself. 
'Twas  that  delightful  season,  when  the  broom, 
Full  flower'd,  and  visible  on  every  steep, 
Along  the  copses  runs  in  veins  of  gold. 
Our  pathway  led  us  on  to  Rotha's  banks, 
And  when  we  came  in  front  of  that  tall  rock 
Which  looks  towards  the  East,  I  there  stopp'd 

short, 
And  trac'd  the  lofty  barrier  with  my  eye 
From  base  to  summit;  such  delight  I  found 
To  note  in  shrub  and  tree,  in  stone  and  flower, 
That  intermixture  of  delicious  hues 
Along  so  vast  a  surface,  all  at  once, 
In  one  impression,  by  connecting  force 
Of  their  own  beauty,  imag'd  in  the  heart. 
When  1  had  gaz'd  perhaps  two  minutes'  space, 
Joanna,  looking  in  my  eyes,  beheld 
That  ravishment  of  mine,  and  laugh'd  aloud. 
The  rock,  like  something  starting  from  a  sleep, 
Took  up  the  Lady's  voice,  and  laugh'd  again: 
That  ancient  Woman  seated  on  Helm-crag 
Was  ready  v/ith  her  cavern:  Hammar-Scar, 
And  the  tall  Steep  of  Silver-How  sent  forth 
A  noise  of  laughter  ■  southern  Loughrigg  heard. 
And  Fairfield  answer'd  with  a  mountain  tone : 
Helvellyn  far  into  the  clear  blue  sky 
Carried  the  Lady's  voice.— Old  Skiddaw  blew 
Vol.  II.  N 


142 


His  speaking  trumpet; — back  out  of  the  clouds 
Of  Glaramara  southward  came  the  voice ; 
And  Kirkstone  toss'd  it  from  his  misty  head. 
Now  whether  (said  I  to  our  cordial  Friend 
Who  in  the  hey-day  of  astonishment 
Smil'd  in  my  face)   this  were  in  simple  truth 
A  work  accomplish'd  by  the  brotherhood 
Of  ancient  mountains,  or  my  ear  was  touch'd 
With  dreams  and  visionary  impulses, 
Is  not  for  me  to  tell ;  but  sure  I  am 
That  there  was  a  loud  uproar  in  the  hills. 
And,  while  we  both  were  listening,  to  my  side 
The  fair  Joanna  drew,  is  if  she  wish'd 
To  shelter  from  some  object  of  her  fear. 
- — And  hence,  long  afterwards,  when  eighteen 

moons 
Were  wasted,  as  I  chancM  to  walk  alone 
Beneath  this  rock,  at  sun-rise  on  a  calm 
And  silent  morning,  I  sate  down,  and  there, 
In  memory  of  affections  old  and  true, 
I  chissePd  out  in  those  rude  characters 
Joanna's  name  upon  the  living  stone. 
And  I,  and  all  who  dwell  by  my  fire-side, 
Have  call'd  the  lovely  rock,  Joanna's  Rock." 


NOTE. 

In  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  are  several  In- 
scriptions upon  the  native  rock  which  from  the  wasting  of 


w$ 


III. 


THERE  is  an  Eminencer — of'these  our  hill* 
The  last  that  parleys  with  the  setting  sun.. 
We  can  behold  it  from  our  Orchard-seat, 
And,  when  at  evening  we  pursue  our  walk 
Along  the  public  way,  this  Cliff,  so  higji 
Above  us,-  and  so  distant  in  its  height- 
Is  visible,  and  often  seems  to  send 
Its  own  deep  quiet  to  restore  our  hearts- 
The  meteors  make  of  it  a  favorite  haunt: 
The  star  of  Jove,  so  beautiful  and  large 


Time,  and  the  rudeness  of  the  workmanship  had  been  mis- 
taken for  Runic.     They  are  without  doubt  Roman. 

The  Rotha,  mentioned  in  this  Poem,  is-- the  River  which 
flowing  through  the  Lakes  of  Grasmere.  and  Rydole,  falls 
into  Wyndermere.  On  Helm-Crag,  the  impressive  single 
mountain  at  the  head  of  the  vale  of  Grasmere,  is  a  rock, 
which  from  most  points  of  view,  bears  a  striking  resemblance 
to  an  Old  Woman  cowering.  Close  by  this  rock  is  one  of 
those  Fissures  or  Caverns,  which  in  the  language  of  the 
country  are  called  Dungeons*  The  other  mountains  either 
immediately  surround  the  vale  of  Grasmere,  or  belong  to 
the  same  clutter. 


144 


In  the  mid  heav'ns,  is  never  half  so  fair 
As  when  he  shines  above  it.     *Tis  in  truth 
The  loneliest  place  we  have  among  the  clouds. 
And  She  who  dwells  with  me,  whom  I  have 

lov'd 
With  such  communion,  that  no  place  on  earth 
Can  ever  be  a  solitude  to  me, 
Hath  said,  this  lonesome  Peak  shall  bear  my 

Name. 


IV. 


A  NARROW  girdle  of  rough  stones  and  crags, 
A  rude  and  natural  causeway,  interpos'd 
Between  the  water  and  a  winding  slope 
Of  copse  and  thicket,  leaves  the  eastern  shore. 
Of  Grasmere  safe  in  its  own  privacy. 
And  there,  myself  and  two  beloved  Friends, 
One  calm  September  morning,  ere  the  mist 
Had  altogether  yielded  to  the  sun, 
Saunter'd  on  this  retir'd,  and  difficult  way. 
— Ill  suits  the  road  with  one  in  haste,  but  we 
Play'd  with  our  time ;  and  as  we  stroll'd  along*. 
It  was  our  occupation  to  observe 


145 


Such  objects  as  the  waves  had  toss'd  ashore, 
Feather,  or  leaf,  or  weed,  or  wither'd  bough, 
Each  on  the  other  heap'd  along  the  line 
Of  the  dry  wreck.    And  in  our  vacant  mood, 
Not  seldom  did  we  stop  to  watch  some  tuft 
Of  dandelion  seed  or  thistle's  beard, 
Which,  seeming  lifeless  half,  and  half  impell'd 
By  some  internal  feeling,  skimm'd  along 
Close  to  the  surface  of  the  lake  that  lay 
Asleep  in  a  dead  calm,  ran  closely  on 
Along  the  dead  calm  lake,  now  here,  now  there, 
In  all  its  sportive  wanderings  all  the  while 
Making  report  of  an  invisible  breeze 
That  was  its  wings,  its  chariot,  and  its  horse, 
Its  very  playmate,  and  its  moving  soul. 
—And  often,  trifling  with  a  privilege 
Alike  indulg'd  to  all,  we  paus'd,  one  now, 
And  now  the  other,  to  point  out,  perchance 
To  pluck,  some  flower  or  water- weed,  too  fair, 
Either  to  be  divided  from  the  place 
Oh  which  it  grew,  or  to  be  left  alone 
To  its  own  beauty.     Many  such  there  are, 
Fair  ferns  and  flowers,  and  chiefly  that  tall  plant 
So  stately,  of  the  Queen  Osmunda  named, 
Plant  lovelier  in  its  own  retir'd  abode 
On  Grasmere's  beach,   than  Naid  by  the  side 
Of  Grecian  brook,  or  Lady  of  the  Mere 
Sole  sitting  by  the  shores  of  old  Romance. 
— So  fared  we  that  sweet  morning:  from  the 
fields 

Vol.  II.  N  2 


146 


Meanwhile,  a  noise  was  heard,  the  busy  mirth 
Of  Reapers,  Men  and  Women,  Boys  and  Girls. 
Delighted  much  to  listen  to  those  sounds, 
And  in  the  fashion  which  I  have  described, 
Feeding  unthinking  fancies,  we  advane'd 
Along  the  indented  shore;  when  suddenly, 
Through  a  thin  veil  of  glittering  haze,  we  saw 
Before  us  on  a  point  of  jutting  land 
The  tall  and  upright  figure  of  a  Man 
Attir'd  in  Peasant's  garb,  who  stood  alone, 
Angling  beside  the  margin  of  the  lake. 
That  way  we  turn'd  our  steps ;  nor  was  it  long, 
Ere  making  ready  comments  on  the  sight 
Which  then  we  saw,  with  one  and  the  same 

voice 
We  all  cried  out,  that  he  must  be  indeed 
An  idle  man,  who  thus  could  lose  a  day 
Of  the  mid-harvest,  when  the  labourer's  hire 
Is  ample,  and  some  little  might  be  stor'd 
Wherewith  to  cheer  him  in  the  winter  time. 
Thus  talking  of  that  Peasant  we  approach'd 
Close  to  the  spot  where  with  his  rod  and  line 
He  stood  alone ;  whereat  he  turn'd  his  head 
To  greet  us — and  we  saw  a  man  worn  down 
By  sickness,  gaunt  and  lean,  with  sunken  cheeks 
And  wasted  limbs,  his  legs  so  long  and  lean, 
That  for  my  single  self  1  look'd  at  them, 
Forgetful  of  the  body  they  sustain'd.- — 
Too  weak  to  labour  in  the  harvest  field, 


T47 


The  man  was  using  his  best  skill  to  gain 
A  pittance  from  the  dead  unfeeling  lake 
That  knew,  not  of  his  wants.     I  will  not  say 
What  thoughts  immediately  were  ours,  nor  how 
The  happy  idleness  of  that  sweet  morn, 
With  all  its  lovely  images,  was  chang'd 
To  serious  musing  and  to  self-reproach. 
Nor  did  we  fail  to  see  within  ourselves 
What  need  there  is  to  be  reserv'd  in  speech^ 
And  temper  all  our  thoughts  with  Charity. 
— Therefore,  unwilling  to  forget  that  day, 
My  Friend,  Myself,  and  She  who  then  re* 

ceiv'd 
The  same  admonishment,  have  call 'd  the  place 
By  a  memorial  name,  uncouth  indeed. 
As^e'er  by  mariner  was  given  to  bay 
Or  foreland  on  a  new  discover'd  coast, 
And  Point  Rash -judgment  is  the  name 

it  bears^ 


148 


v: 


To  M.  R„ 

OUR  walk  was  far  among  the  ancient  trees : 
There  was  no  road,  nor  any  woodman's  path, 
But  the  thick  umbrage  cheeking  the  wild  growth 
Of  weed  and  sapling,  on  the  soft  green  turf 
Beneath  the  branches  of  itself  had  made 
A  track  which  brought  us  to  a  slip  of  lawn, 
And  a  small  bed  of  water  in  the  woods. 
All  round  this  pool  both  flocks  and  herds  might 

drink 
On  its  firm  margin,  even  as  from  a  well 
Or  some  stone-bason  which  the  Herdsman's 

hand 
Had  shap'd  for  their  refreshment,  nor  did  sun 
Or  wind  from  any  quarter  ever  come 
But  as  a  blessing  to  this  calm  recess, 
This  glade  of  water  and  this  one  green  field'. 
The  spot  was  made  by  Nature  for  herself: 
The  travellers  know  it  not,  and  'twill  remain 
Unknown  to  them ;  but  it  is  beautiful ; 
And  if  a  man  should  plant  his  cottage  near, 
Should  sleep  beneath  the  shelter  of  its  trees, 
And  blend  its  waters  with  his  daily  meal, 
He  would  so  love  it  that  in  his  death-hour 
Its  image  would  survive  among  his  thoughts, 
And,  therefore,   my  sweet  Mary,  this  still 

Nook 
With  all  its  beeches  we  have  named  from  you. 


149 


MICHAEL. 


A    PASTORAL    POEM. 


IF  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps 
Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Gill, 
You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path 
Your  feet  must  struggle ;  in  such  bold  ascent 
The  pastoral  mountains  front  you,  face  to  face. 
But,  courage !  for  beside  that  boisterous  brook 
The  mountains  have  all  open'd  out  themselves^ 
And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 
No  habitation  there  is  seen ;  but  such 
Asjourney  thither  find  themselves  alone 
With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones,  and 

kites 
That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 
It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude, 
Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this  dell 
But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass  by^. 
Might  see  and  notice  not.     Beside  the  brook 
There  is  a  stragling  heap  of  unhewn  stones! 
And  to  that  place  a  story  appertains, 


I5<* 

Which,,  though  it  be  ungarnish*d  with  events,. 

Is  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fire-side, 

Or  for  the  summer  shade.     It  was  the  first, 

The  earliest  of  those  tales  that  spake  to  me 

Of  Shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  vallies,  men 

Whom  I  already  lov'd,  not  verily 

For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 

Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 

And  hence  this  Tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy 

Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 

Of  Nature^  by  the  gentle  agency 

Of  natural  objects  led  me  on  to  feel 

For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and. think 

At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed* 

On  man ;  the  heart  of  man  and  human  life. 

Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history 

Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same 

For  the  delight  of  a  few  natural  hearts, 

And  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  die  sake 

Of  youthful  Poets,  who  among  these  Hills 

Will  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 


Upon  the  Forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale 
There  dwelr  a  Shepherd,  Michael  was  his 

name, 
An  old  man,  stout  of  heart,  and  strong  of  limb. 


151 


His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength:  his  mind  was  keen, 
Intense  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs, 
And  in  his  Shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  he  had  learn'd  the  meaning  of  all  winds, 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone,  and  ofrentimes 
When  others  heeded  not,  He  heard  the  South 
Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  Bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills; 
The  Shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 
Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would  say 
The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me ! 
And  truly  at  all  times  the  storm,  that  drives 
The  Traveller  to  a  shelter,  summon'd  him 
Up  to  the  mountains :  He  had  been  alone 
Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists 
That  came  to  him  and  left  him  on  the  heights. 
So  liv'd  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  pass'd. 


And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  should  suppose 
That  the  green  Vallies,  and  the  Streams  and 

Rocks, 
Were  things  indifferent  to  the  Shepherd's 

thoughts. 
Fields,    where  with  chearful  spirits  he  had 

breath'd 
The  common  air;  the  hills,  which  he  so  oft 
Had  climb'd  with  vigorous  steps;   which  had 

imprcss'd 


152 


So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 
Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear; 
Which  like  a  book  preserved  the  memory 
Of  the  dumb  animals,  whom  he  had  sav'd, 
Had  fed  or  shelter'd,  linking  to  such  acts, 
So  grateful  in  themselves,  the  certainty 
Of  honorable  gains ;    these  fields,  these  hills 
Which  were  his  living  Being,  even  more 
Than  his  own  Blood — what  could  they  less  ? 

had  laid 
Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 
A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love, 
The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 


He  had  not  pass'd  his  days  in  singleness. 
He  had  a  Wife,  a  comely  Matron,  old 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty  years. 
She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life 
Whose  heart  was  in  her  house;    two  wheels 

she  had 
Of  antique  form,  this  large  for  spinning  wool, 
That  small  for  flax,  and  if  one  wheel  had  rest, 
It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. . 
The  Pair  had  but  one  Inmate  in  their  house, 
An  only  Child,  who  had  been  born  to  them 
When  Michael  telling  o'er  his  years  began 
To  deem  that  he  was  old,  in  Shepherd's  phrase, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave.     This  only  son, 
With  two  brave  sheep-dogs  tried  in  many  a 

storm, 


153 


The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 
Made  all  their  household.     I  may  truly  say, 
That  they  were  as  a  Proverb  in  the  vale 
For  endless  industry.     When  day  was  gone, 
And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 
The  Son  and  Father  were  come  home,  even 

then 
Their  labour  did  not  cease,  unless  when  all 
Turn'd  to  their  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there 
Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimm'd  milk, 
Sate  round  their  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes, 
And   their   plain  home-made   cheese.      Yet 

when  their  meal 
Was  ended,  Luke,  for  so  the  son  was  nanVd, 
And  his  old  Father,  both  betook  themselves 
To  such  convenient  work,  as  might  employ 
Their  hands  by  the  fire-side ;  perhaps  to  card 
Wool  for  the  House-wife's  spindle,  or  repair 
Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe, 
Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 


Down  from  the  cieling  by  the  chimnev's  edge, 
Which  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style 
Did  with  a  huge  projection  overbrow 
Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 
Of  day  grew  dim,  the  House-wife  hung  a  lamp  ; 
An  aged  utensil,  which  had  perform 'd 
Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 
Vol.  II.  O 


154 


Early  at  evening  did  it  burn  and  late, 
Surviving  Comrade  of  uncounted  Hours 
Which  going  by  from  year  to  year  had  found 
And  left  the  Couple  neither  gay  perhaps 
Nor  chearful,  yet  with  objects  and  with  hopes 
Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 
And  now,  when  Luke  was  in  his  eighteenth 

year, 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sate, 
Father  and  Son,  while  late  into  the  night 
The  House-wife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work, 
Making  the  cottage  thro1  the  silent  hours 
Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 
Not  with  a  waste  of  words,  but  for  the  sake 
Of  pleasure,  which  I  know  that  I  shall  give 
To  many  living  now,  I  of  this  Lamp 
Speak  thus  minutely;  for  there  are  no  few 
Whose  memories  will  bear  witness  to  my  Tale. 
The  Light  was  famous  in  its  neighbourhood, 
And  was  a.  public  Symbol  of  the  life, 
The  thrifty  Pair  had  lived.    For  as  it  chane'd, 
Their  Cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 
Stood  single,  with  large  prospect  North  and 

South, 
High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmal-Raise, 
And  Westward  to  the  village  near  the  Lake : 
And  from  this  constant  light  so  regular 
And  so  far  seen,  the  House  itself  by  all 
Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale, 


155 

Both  old  and  young,  was  nam'd  The  Even- 
ing Star. 

Thusliving  on  through  such  a  length  of  years, 
The  Shepherd,  if  he  lov'd  himself,  must  needs 
Have  lov'd  his  Help-mate;  but  to  Michael's 

heart 
This  Son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more  dear — 
Effect  which  might  perhaps  havebeenproduc'd 
By  that  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Blind  Spirit,  which  is  in  the  blood  of  all ; 
Or  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts, 
Brings   hope  with   it,    and   forward-looking 

thoughts, 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  heeds  must  fail. 
From  such,  and  other  causes,  to  the  thoughts 
Of  the  Old  Man  his  only  son  was  now 
The  dearest  object  that  he  knew  on  earth. 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him, 
His  Heart  and  his  Heart's  joy  !  For  oftentimes 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms, 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  dalliance  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of  Fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforc'd 
To  acts  of  tenderness;  and  he  had  rock'd 
His  cradle  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

And  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  Boy 

Had  put  on  Boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love, 


156 


Albeit  of  a  stern  unbending  mind, 
To  have  the  Young-one  in  his  sight,  when  he 
Had  work  by  his  own  door,  or  when  he  sate 
With  sheep  before  him  on  his  Shepherd's  stool, 
Beneath  that  large  old  Oak,  which  near  their 

door 
Stood,  and  from  its  enormous  breadth  of  shade 
Chosen  for  the  Shearer's  covert  from  the  sun,. 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  call'd 
The  Clipping  Tree,*  a  name  which  yet  it 

bears. 
There  whilethey  two  were  sitting  in  the  shade, 
With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and  blithe, 
Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with  looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestow'd 
Upon  the  child,  if  he  disturb M  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shout* 
Scar'd  them,  while  they  lay  stijl  beneath  the 

shears.. 

And  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the  Boy 

grew  up 
A  healthy  lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steadv  roses  that  were  five  years  old, 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 
With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he  hoop-'cl 

♦Clipping   is   the    word  used  in    the  North  of 
England  for  shearing* 


157 


With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 
Due  requisites  a  perfect  Shepherd's  Staff, 
And  gave  it  to  the  Boy ;  wherewith  equipp'd, 
He,  as  a  Watchman  oftentimes  was  plac'd, 
At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock, 
And  to  his  office  prematurely  calPd 
There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine, 
Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help, 
And  for  this  cause  not  always,  I  believe, 
Receiving  from  his  Father  hire  of  praise. 


While  this  good  Household  thus  were  living 

on 
From  day  to  day,  to  Michael's  ear  there  came 
Distressful  tidings.     Long  before  the  time 
Of  which  I  speak,  the  Shepherd  had  been  bound 
In  surety  for  his  Brother's  Son,  a  man 
Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means, 
But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 
Had  press'd  upon  him,  and  old  Michael  now 
Was  summon'd  to  discharge  the  forfeiture, 
A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 
Than  half  his  substance.     This  unlook'd  for 

claim 
At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 

Vol.  II.  0  2 


153 


More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost* 
As  soon  as  he  had  gather'd  so  much  strength 
That  he  could  look  his  trouble  in  the  face, 
It  seem'd  that  his  sole  refuge  was.  to  sell 
A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 
Such  was  his  first  resolve ;  he  thought  again,, 
And  his  heart  faiPd  him.     "Isabel,."  said  he 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 
"I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy  years* 
And  in  the  open  sun-shine  of  God's  love 
Have  we  all  lived,  yet  if  these  fields  of  ours. 
Should  pass  into  a  Stranger's  hand,  I  think 
That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave* 
Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot  I  the  Sun  itself 
Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I,, 
And  I  have  liv'd  to.  be  a  fool  at  last 
To  my  own  family.     An  evil  man 
That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 
Were  false  to  us ;  and  if  he  were  not  false, 
There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like  this 
Had  been  no  sorrow.     I  forgive  him — but 
'Twere  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus  i 
When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies,  and  of  a  chearful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel  -y  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free ; 
He  shall  possess  it,  free  as  is  the  wind 
That  passes  over  it.  We  have,  thou  knowesr, 


159 


Another  Kinsman,  he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.     He  is  a  prosperous  man, 
Thriving  in  trade,  and  Luke  to  him  shall  got 
And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own  thrift, 
He  quickly  will  repair  this,  loss,  and  then 
May  come  again  to  us.     If  here  he  stay, 
What  can  be  done?  Where  every  one  is  poor 
What  can  be  gain'd?"  At  this,  the  Old  Man 

paus'd, 
And  Isabel  sate  silent,  for  her  mind 
Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 
There's  Richard  Bateman,  thought  she  to  her- 
self, 
He  was  a  parish-boy — At  the  church-door 
They  made  a  Gathering  for  him,  shillings, 

pence, 
And  half-pennies,  wherewith  the  neighbours 

bought 
A  Basket,  which  they  fill'd  with  Pedlar's  wares, 
And  with  this  Basket  on  his  arm,  the  Lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  Master  there, 
Who  out  of  many  chose  the  trusty  Boy 
To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandize 
Beyond  the  seas ,  where  he  grew  wond'rous  rich, 
And  left  estates  and  monies  to  the  poor,. 
And  at  his  birth-place  built  a  Chapel,  floor'd 
With  Marble  which  he  sent  from  foreign  lands. 
These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like  sort, 
Pass'd  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 
And  her  face  brighten'd.  The  Old  Man  was  glad, 


160 


And  thus  resum'd.  "  Well !  Isabel,  this  scheme 
These  two  days  has  been  meat  and  drink  to  me. 
•Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 
» — We  have  enough — I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were  younger,  but  this  hope  is  a  good  hope. 
. — Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the  best 
Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send"  him  forth 
To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night : 
— If  he  could  go,  the  Boy  should  go  to-night." 

Here  Michael  ceas'd,  and  to  the  fields  went 

forth 
With  a  light  heart.     The  Housewife  for  five 

days 
Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day  long 
Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  prepare 
Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work ;  for,  when  she  lay 
By  Michael's  side,  she  for  the  two  last  nights 
Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his  sleep : 
And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could  see 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.     That  day  at 

noon 
She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  them- 
selves 
Were  sittingat  the  door, — "Thoumustnot  go,. 
"  We  have  no  other  Child  but  thee  to  lose, 
"  None  to  remember — do  not  go  away, 
"  For  if  thou  leave  thy  Father  he  will  die." 


161 


The  Lad  made  answer. with  a  jocund  voice, 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears, 
Recovered  heart.     That  evening  her  best  fare 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sate 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

Next  morning  Isabel  resum'd  her  work, 
And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  appear'd 
As  chearful  as  a  grove  in  Spring:  At  length 
The  expected  letter  from  their  Kinsman  came, 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 
His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  Boy, 
To  which  requests  were  added,  that  forthwith 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.     Ten  times  or  more 
The  letter  was  read  over;  Isabel 
Went  forth  toshewit  to  the  neighbours  round;- 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land 
A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.     When  Isabel 
Had  to  her  house  return'd,  the  Old  Man  said, 
"  He  shall  depart  to-morrow."  To  this  word 
The  Housewife  answered,  talking  much  of 

things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go, 
Would  surely  be  forgotten.  But  at  length 
She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  was  at  ease. 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head 

Gill, 
In  that  deep  Valley,  Michael  had  designed 


162 


To  build  a  sheep-fold,  and,  before  he  heard 

The  tidings  of  his  melarieholy  loss, 

For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gather'd  up 

A  heap  of  stones,  which  close  to  the  brook 

side 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walk'd ; 
And  soon  as  they  had  reach'd  the  place  he 

stopp'd, 
And  thus  the  Old  Man  spake  to  him.    "My 

Son! 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me ;  with  full  heart 
I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 
That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth,      * 
And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 
J  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 
Of  our  two  histories ;  'twill  do  thee  gt>od 
When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should  speak 
Of  things  thou  canst  not  know  of,-— After"  thou 
First  cam'st  into  the  world,  as  it  befalls 
To  new-born  infants,  thou  didst-  sleep  away 
Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy.  Father's 

tongue 
Then  fell  upon  thee.     Day  by  day  pass*d  on, 
And  still.  1  lov'd  thee  with  encreasing  love^ 
Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  out  own  fire-side 
First  uttering  without  words  a  natural  tune, 
When  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 


163 


Sing  at  thy  Mother's  breast.    Month  follow'd 

month, 
And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  pass'd, 
And  in  the  mountains,  else  I  think  that  thou 
Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  father's  knees. 
-—But  we  were  playmates-,  Luke!  Among  these 

hills, 
As  well  thou  know'st,  in  us  the  old  and  young 
Have  play'd  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 
Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  Boy  can  know." 
Luke  had  a  manly  heart ;  but  at  these  words 
He  sobb'd  ^iloud;    the  Old  Man  grasp'd  his 

hand, 
And  said, — "  Nay,  do  not  take  it  so — I  see 
That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak. 
— Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 
A  kind^and  a  good  Father;  and  herein 
I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 
Receiv'd  at  others  hands,  for,  though  now  old 
Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still 
Remember  them  who  lov'd  me  in  my  youth. 
Both  of  them  sleep  together;  here  they  liv'd 
As  all  their  Forefathers  had  done,  and  when 
At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not 

loth 
To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 
I  wish'd  that  thou  should'st  live  the  life  they 

liv'd. 
But  'tis  a  long  time  to  look  back  my  Son, 


164 


And  see  so  little  gain  from  sixty  years. 
These  fields  were  burthen'd  when  they  came 

to  me; 
'Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 
Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 
ItoiPd  and  toil'd ;  God  bless'dme  in  my  work, 
And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was 

free. 
— It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 
Another  Master,  Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke, 
If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 
That  thou  should'st  go."     At  this  the  Old 

Man  paus'd, 
Then  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which  they 

stood, 
Thus,  after  a  short  silence  he  resum'd : — 
"  This  was  a  work  for  us,  and  now,  my  Son, 
It  is  a  work  for  me.     But,  lay  one  stone — 
Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own 

hands. 
1  for  the  purpose  brought  thee  to  this  place. 
Nay,  Boy,  be  of  good  hope; — we  both  may 

live 
To  see  a  better  day.     At  eighty-four 
I  still  am  strong  and  stout; — do  thou  thy  part, 
I  will  do  mine. — I  will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that  were  resign' d  to  thee ; 
Up  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the  storms, 
Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 


165 


All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone 
Before  I  knew  thy  face. — Heaven  bless  thee, 

Boy ! 
Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating 

fast 
With  many  hopes — it  should   be  so — yes — 

yes — 
I  knew  that  thou  could'st  never  have  a  wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke,  thou  hast  been  bound  to  me 
Only  bv  links  of  love,  when  thou  art  gone 
What  will  be  left  to  us  ! — But,  I  forget 
My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  corner-stone, 
As  I  requested,  and  hereafter,  Luke, 
When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 
Be  thy  companions,  let  this  Sheep-fold  be 
Thy  anchor  and  thy  shield ;  amid  all  fear 
And  all  temptation,  let  it  be  to  thee 
An  emblem  of  the  life  thy  Fathers  liv'd, 
Who  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.'    Now,  fare  thee 

well — 
When  thou  return'st,  thou  in  this  place  wilt  see 
A  work  which  is  not  here,  a  Covenant 
'Twill  be  between  us — but  whatever  fate 
Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last, 
And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave.  *jN 

The  Shepherd  ended  here;  and  Luke  stoop'd 
down, 

Vol.  II.  P 


166 


And  as  his  Father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  sheep-fold;  at  the  sight 
The  Old  Man's  grief  broke  from  him,  to  his  heart 
He  press'd  his  Son,  he  kissed  him,  and  wept; 
And  to  the  House  together  they  return'd. 


Next  morning,  as  had  been  resolv'd,  the  Boy- 
Began  his  journey,  and  when  he  had  reach'd 
The  public  Way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face; 
And  all  the  Neighbours  as  he  pass'd  their  doors 
Came  forth,  with  wishes  and   with  farewell 

pray'rs, 
That  follow'd  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 


A  good  Report  did  from  their  Kinsman  come, 

Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing;  and  the  Boy 

Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wond'rcus  news, 

Which,   as   the  Housewife  phras'd  it,   were 

throughout 

The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen. 

Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing  hearts. 

So,  many  months  pass'd  on:  And  once  again 

The  Shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 

With  confident  andchearful  thoughts ;  and  now 

Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure  hour 

He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 

Wrought  at  the  sheep-fold.     Meantime  Luke 

beo-an 
p 


1 67 

To  slacken  in  his  doty,  and  at  length 
He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses;  ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 


There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love ; 
Twill  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  break  the  heart: — Old  Michael  found 

it    SOr 

I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who  well 
Remember  the  Old  Man,  and  what  he  was 
Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength.     Among  the  rocks 
He  went,  and  stilt  look'd  up  upon  the  sun, 
And  listen'd  to  the  wind;  and  as  before 
Perform'd  all  kinds  of  labour  for  his  sheep, 
And  for  the  land  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hollow  Dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  Fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  need,     'Tis  not  forgotten  yet 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  Old  Man— and  'tis  believ'd  by  all 
That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither  went 
And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 
There,  by  the  Sheep-fold,  sometimes  was  he 
seen 


168 


Sitting  alone,  with  that  his  faithful  Dog, 
Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years  from  time  to  time 
He  at  the  building  of  this  Sheep-fold  wrought 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 


Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel, 
Survive  her  Husband:  At  her  death  the  estate 
Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  Stranger's  hand. 
The  Cottage,  which  was  nam'd  the  Evening 

Star, 
Is  gone,  the  ploughshare  has  been  through  the 

ground 
On  which  it  stood ;  great  changes  have  been 

wrought 
In  all  the  neighbourhood,  yet  the  Oak  is  left 
That  grew  beside  their  door;  and  the  remains 
Of  the  unfinish'd  Sheep-fold  mav  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Green  head  Gil L 


NOTES. 


Note  to  the  Thorn,  V.  I. p.  95.— This  Poem  ought  to  have 
been  preceded  by  an  introductory  Poem,  which  I  have  been  pre- 
vented from  writing  by  never  having  felt  myself  in  a  mood 
when  it  was  probable  that  I  should  write  it  well.— The  character 
which  I  have  here  introduced  speaking  is  sufficiently  common. 
The  Reader  will  perhaps  have  a  general  notion  of  it,  if  he  has 
ever  known  a  man,  a  Captain  of  a  small  trading  vessel  for  ex- 
ample, who  being  past  the  middle  age  of  Ike,  had  retired  upon 
an  annuity,  or  small  independent  income,  to  some  village  or 
country  town  of  which  he  was  not  a  native,  or  in  which  he  had 
not  been  accustomed  to  live.  Such  men  having  little  to  do  become 
credulous  and  talkative  from  indolence;  and  from  the  same 
cause,  and  other  pre-disposing  causes  by  which  it  is  probable 
that  such  men  may  have  been  affected,  they  are  prone  to  super- 
stition. On  which  account  it  appeared  to  me  proper  to  select  a 
character  like  this,  to  exhibit  some  of  the  general  laws  by  which 
superstition  acts  upon  the  mind.  Superstitious  men  are  almost 
always  men  of  slow  faculties  and  deep  feelings,  their  minds  are 
not  loose  but  adhesive  j  they  have  a  reasonable  share  of  imagi- 
nation, by  which  word  I  mean  the  faculty  which  produces  im-. 
pressive  effects  out  of  simple  elements  j  but  they  are  utterly 
destitute  of  fancy,  the  power  by  which  pleasure  and  surptiso 
are  excited  by  sudden  varieties  of  situation,  and  by  accumulated 
imagery. 

It  was  my  wish  in  this  Poem  to  shew  the  manner  in  which 
such  men  cleave  to  the  same  ideas  5  and  to  follow  the  turns  of 
passion,  always  different,  yet  not  palpably  different,  by  which 
their  conversation  is  swayed.  I  had  two  objects  to  attain  j  first, 
to  represent  a  picture  which  should  not  be  unimpressive  yet  con- 
sistent with  the  character  that  should  describe  it  j  secondly, 
while  I  adhered  to  the  style  in  which  such  persona  described,  to 
take  care  that  words,  which  in  their  minds  are  impregnated 
with  passion,  should  likewise  convey  passion  to  Readers  who 


170 


are  not  accustomed  to  sympathise  with  men  feeling  in  that 
manner  or  using  fuch  language.  It  feemcd  to  me  that  this 
might  be  done  by  calling  in  the  assistance  of  Lyrical  and  rapid 
Metre.  It  was  necessary  that  the  Poem,  to  be  natural,  should 
in  reality  move  slowly ;  yet  I  hoped,  that,  by  the  aid  of  the 
Metre,  to  those  who  should  at  all  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the 
Poem,  it  would  appear  to  move  quickly.  The  Reader  will  have 
the  kindness  to  excuse  this  note,  as  I  am  sensible  that  2Q  intro- 
ductory Poem  is  necessary  to  give  this  Poem  its  full  effect. 

Upon  this  occasion  I  will  request  permission  to  add  a  few 
words  closely  connected  with  the  Thorn,  and  many  other  Po- 
ems in  these. Volumes.  There  is  a  numerous  chss  of  readers 
who  imagine  that  the  same  words  cannot  be  repeated  without 
tautology:  This  is  a  great  error:  YUi-.i-i  tsufotrgy  is  such 
ofcener  produced  by  ueing  different  words  when  the  meaning  ia 
c xactly  the  same,.  Words,  a  Poet's  words  more  partkuiariyy 
otight  to  be  weighed  in  the  balance  of  feeling,  and  not  measured 
by:  the  space  which  they  occupy  upon  paper.  For  the  Reader 
cannot  be  too  often  reminded,  that  Poetry  is  Passion  j  it  is  the 
Jiistory  or  Science  of  Feelings.  "New  every  man  must  know, 
that  S£  ?:t£EBpt  is  rarely  made  to  communicate  impassion- 
ed feelings,  without  something  of  an  accompanying  consci- 
ousness of  the  inadequatfcfiess  of  cur  own  powers,  or  the  de« 
ficiencies  of  language.  During  such  efforts  there  will  be  a  craving 
-to  the  mind,  and  as  long  as  it  is  unsatisfied,  the  Speaker  will  cling 
to  the  same  word*  or  words  of  the  same  character.  There  are 
also  various  other  reasons  why  repetition  and  apparent  tautology 
are  frequently  beauties  of  the  highest  kind.  Among  the  chief  of 
these  reasons  is  the  interest  which  the  mind  attaches  to  words, 
not  only  as  symbols  of  the  passion,  but  as  tbiit^  active  and  effi- 
cient, which  are  of  themselves  part  of  the  passion.  And  further^ 
from  a  spirit  of  fondness,  exultation,  and  gratitude,  the  mind 
luxuriates  in  the  repetition  of  words,  which  appear  successfully 
to  communicate  its  feelings.  The  truth  of  these  remarks  might 
be  shewn  by  innumerable  passages  from  the  Bibie>  aftd  from  ths 
iinpessioaed  Poetry  of  every  nation* 


171 


"  Awake,  awake  Deborah:  awake,  »v,-ake,  utter  a  song: 
Arise  Barak,  and  lead  thy  captivity  captive,  thou  son  of  Abi- 
noam. 

"  At  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell,  h-2  lay  down  :  at  her  feet,  he 
.bowedj  he  feilj  where  he  bowed,  there  he  fell  down  dead. 

Why  Is  his  Chariot  so  long  in  coming  ?  Why  tarry  the 
Wheels  of  his  Chariot?"— Judges,  Chap.  5th.  Verses  12th 
27th,  and  part  of  the  28th — See  also  the  whole  of  that  tumultu- 
ous and  wonderful  Poem. 

Note  to  the  Ancient  Mariner,  V.  I.  p.  13.— I  cannot 
refuse  myself  the  gratification  of  informing  such  Readers  as  may 
have  been  pleased  with  this  Poem,  or  with  any  part  of  it,  that 
they  owe  their  pleasure  in  some  sort  to  me  j  as  the  Author  was 
himself  very  desirous  that  it  should  be  suppressed*  This  wish 
had  arisen  from  a  consciousness  of  the  defects  of  the  Poem, 
and  from  a  knowledge  that  many  persons  had  been  much  dis- 
pleased with  it.  The  Poem  of  my  friend  has  indeed  great  de- 
fects \  first,  that  the  principal  person  has  no  distinct  character, 
either  in  his  profession  of  Mariner,  or  as  a  human  being  who^ 
having  been  long  under  the  controul  of  supernatural  impressions, 
might  be  supposed  himself  to  partake  of  something  supernatu- 
ral; secondly,  that  he  does  not  act,  but  is  continually  acted 
upon  ;  thirdly,  that  the  events  having  no  necessary  connection, 
do  not  produce  each  other;  and  lastly,  that  the  imagery  is  some- 
what too  laboriously  accumulated.  Yet  the  Poem  centains  ma- 
ny delicate  touches  of  passion,  and  indeed,  the  passion  is  every- 
where true  to  Nature;  a  great  number  of  the  stanzas  present 
beautiful  images,  and  are  expressed  with  unusual  felicity  of  lan- 
guage ;  and  the  versification,  though  the  Metre  is  itself  unfit 
for  long  poems,  is  harmonious  and  artfully  varied,  exhibiting 
the  utmost  powers  of  that  Metre,  and  every  variety  of  which  it  is 
capable.  It  therefore  appeared  to  mc,  that  these  several  merits 
(the  first  of  which,  namely  that  of  the  passion,  is  of  the  highest 
kind)  gave  to  the  Poem  a  value  which  is  not  often  possessed  by 
better  Poems.  On  this  account  I  requested  of  my  friend  ta 
permit  me  to  republish  it* 


172 


Note  to  the  Poem  on  Revisiting  the  Wye,   V.  I.  p. 
K3.— I  have  not  ventured  to  call  this  Poem  an  Ode;  but  it  was 
written  with  a  hope  that  in  the  transitions,  and  the  i  npassioned 
music  of  the  versification  would  be  found  the  principal  requisites 
of  that  species  of  composition. 

Notes  to  the  Poem  of  the  Brothers.   vol.  ii. 

Note  i.  Page  25,  line  15.  "  There  were  two  Springs  that 
bubbled  side  by  side."  The  impressive  circumftance  here  descri- 
bed actually  took  place  some  years  ago  in  this  country,  upon  an 
eminence  called  Kidstow  Pike,  one  of  the  highest  of  the  moun- 
tains that  surround  Hawes-water.  The  summit  of  the  Pike 
was  stricken  by  lightning,  and  every  trace  of  one  of  the  foun- 
tains disappeared  while  the  other  continued  to  flow  as  before. 

Note  2.  Page  27,  line  11.  "  The  thought  of  death  sits  easy 
on  the  man,"  &c.  There  is  not  any  thing  more  worthy  of  re- 
mark in  the  manners  of  the  inhabitants  of  these  mountains, 
than  the  tranquillity,  I  might  say  indifference,  with  which  they 
think  and  talk  upon  the  subject  of  Death.  Some  of  the  coun- 
try church  yards,  as  here  described,  do  not  contain  a  single 
tombstone,  and  most  of  them  have  a  very  small  number. 


Notes  to  the  Poem  of  Michael. 

Note  j.  Page  159,  line  12.  fl  There's  Richard  Bateman," 
&c.  The  Story  alluded  to  here  is  well  known  in  the  country. 
The  Chapel  is  called  Ings  Chapel ;  and  is  on  the  right  hand 
sjde  of  the  road  leading  from  Kendal  to  Ambleside. 

Note  2.    Page  162,  line   1.    "5 had  design'd  to 

build  a  Sheep-fold,"  &c.  It  may  be  proper  to  inform  some  rea- 
ders, that  a  sheep-fold  in  these  mountains  is  an  unroofed  build- 
ing of  stone  walls  with  different  divisions.  It  is  generally  pla- 
ced by  the  side  of  a  brook  for  the  convenience  of  washing  the 
sheep  ;  but  it  is  also  useful  as  a  shelter  for  them,  and  as  a  place 
to  drive  them  into,  to  enable  die  shepherds  conveniently  to  sin- 
gle out  one  or  more  for  any  particular. purpose 


RECENT  English  writer  notices  the  extreme  rarity  of  the" 
volume  of  "  Lyrical  Ballads  and  other  Poems,"  which  Words- 
h  published  in  1796,  and  which  marked  the  new  departure  in . 
ish  poetry.     As  we  suppose  everybody  knows,  the  whole  is* 
y  Wordsworth;  Coleridge's  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  his  "  Gene-^ 
},"  (under  the  name  "Love,")  and  three  of  his  less  notable 
is  are  included  in  the  volume.     We  never  have  seen  any  no-, 
i)f  the  fact  that  in  1802  a  reprint  of  the  collection  appeared  in  j 
Mielphia,  being  published  by  James  Humphreys,  "  at  the   N.l 
orner  of  Walnut  and  Dock  streets."     The  manner  in   which  > 
Humphreys  speaks  of  the  poems  in  his  "Advertisement" 
s  to  show  that  the  undertaking  was  more  than  a  commercial 
llation  in  his  estimation.     He  says  he  had  begun  to  reprint 
ollection  after  the  second  volume  appeared  in  1801,  but  that 
ale  of  the  work  in  London  had  been  so  rapid  that  a  second 
Id  had  already  appeared,  containing  the    famous  "Preface" 
ti  Wordsworth  meant  as  the  manifesto  of  the  new  school  of 
y.     This  second  edition  also  contained  "  the  beautiful  Ode 
>ve,  and  some  additional  explanatory  notes,"  but  it  did  not 
.  Mr.  Humphreys'  type.     For  this  reason  his  edition  follows 
I  first  volume  the  arrangement  of  the  first  London  edition, 
•etains  the  poem  entitled  "  The  Convict,"  which  Wordsworth 
ted  from  the  second.     But  he  arranges  the  table  of  "  Con-  ( 
"  as  it  stands  in  the  second  London  edition.     This  procedure  I 
node  of  speech  indicate  an  unexpected  interest  in  the  con- ; 
of  the  work,  and  shows  that  Mr.  Humphreys  was  not  a. mere/ 
sman,  who  manufactured  books  with  no  ideas  of  what  wast 

?he  first  edition  of  the  "  Ancient  Mariner"  differs  from  the 
in  an  affectation  of  archaism  in  spelling,  which  did  not  com- 
.  itself  to  Coleridge's  maturer  judgment.  It  also  contains  a 
lumber  of  various  readings,  of  which  the  most  notable  is  the 
ome  stanza  in  the  third  part : 

A  gust  of  wind  sterte  up  behind 

And  whistled  through  his  bones  ; 
Thro'  the  holes  of  his  eyes  and  the  hole  of  his  mouth 

Half  whistles  and  half  groans. 

^here  are  no  marginal  notes,  and  the  long  motto  from  Thos. 
et's  "  Archseologia  "  Latin  has  not  yet  been  inserted. 


